


Triggers & Ties Series

by kuriadalmatia



Series: Triggers & Ties [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Adult Content, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Divorce, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Triggers & Ties, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't fair to compare Spencer to Haley—something Aaron tells himself every time he and Spencer are together—but he finds himself unable to stop. Aaron and Spencer work through the highs and the lows that real life brings, including the devastating attack by Foyet and Haley’s murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halo

**Author's Note:**

> ARCHIVING: my LJ, my FFN account and AO3 ... anyone else? Please ask.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.

  
**///***///  
"Mankind are governed more by their feelings than by reason."  
-Samuel Adams  
////***///**

Those in Aaron Hotchner's neighborhood were well aware of his divorce and that he now lived alone. They knew that the younger man who sometimes came home with him was Dr. Reid, a coworker. They also knew that Reid usually stayed overnight because they worked through cases until odd hours when riding the subway home wasn't necessarily an option. Yes, they were nosey, but Aaron had decided forfeiting a few details was much better than them actively snooping or trolling Reid for information when the younger man left the house.

Aaron wondered if they knew that "working through cases" meant Reid closing the door with his foot before pushing Aaron against the wall for a deep kiss. From there, they would either continue kissing, mutually masturbate, sixty-nine... basically everything but actual penetration, depending on how needy or exhausted Aaron and Reid were.

Tonight was one of those "needy" nights.

Reid had him against the wall, hands sliding along his chest and lips against his.

Urgent. Powerful. Grounding.

It had never been like that with Haley. Their "hello" kiss had been one of duty and acknowledgment. Aaron wasn't sure when they had developed a pattern on how they touched each other, but he knew it had its roots in high school. It had been always very set, very safe. She had kissed him demurely. He had kissed her in kind. Physical intimacy had been restricted to the bedroom even before Jack had been born.

Aaron remembered her reasoning: Haley had wanted to be his oasis from the violence he saw with his job. At least, that was the reasoning she'd given him seven years ago, but even before that, they had always had a very strict, very safe sex life. Still, he had wanted to worship her, to remind himself how lucky he was to have such a beautiful wife.

"Hotch?" Reid asked, concern clear in his voice. Even now, they stuck to last names.

Aaron glanced down to see his tie undone as well as his shirt, which hung open to reveal his white undershirt. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to break his chain of thoughts. It wasn't fair to Reid to compare—something he told himself every time they were together—but he found himself unable to stop.

He didn't want to answer; instead, he pulled Reid closer (gently, of course) and began kissing him.

Chastely.

"I'm not going to break," Reid said against his lips. He said the same thing every time, with that matter-of-fact tone to remind him that he wasn't Haley. As if the sparse five o'clock shadow against Aaron's cheek and hard-on pressed into Aaron's thigh could ever be Haley. Hell, Haley had never pounced him, much less strip him in the hallway, even when blood had stained his suit jacket and shirt.

"I know," Aaron replied. And before Reid could ask the question all good lovers asked when their partners were less than enthusiastic, he said fiercely, "I _want_ this. I _need_ this."

 **///***///**

Aaron and Reid had been on separate cases—Reid with the stalker and Aaron dealing with the battered woman—but they still ended up at Aaron's house afterwards.

When Reid was there, they spent most of their time in the formal living room and, if the other man spent the night, Reid ended up in the guest room on a double bed where his feet hung off the bottom. They didn't sleep together; the one time Aaron had actually shared the bed, he had fallen out when he had rolled over.

They never went to Aaron's bedroom despite everything being brand new; Aaron wasn't sure if it was him or Reid who decided on the unspoken rule. When Haley had left, the only furniture she'd taken had been their bedroom set ("It's not like you ever used it or slept in the bed"), Jack's bedroom set ("He need something familiar"), the kitchen table from the breakfast nook ("It's not like you ever ate at home"), and one of the couches from the family room ("When was the last time you watched TV?").

She'd taken a smattering of other things besides hers and Jack's clothing—the television, DVD player, all of Jack's toys, her family photos and all of Jack's baby pictures and videos, the formal china from her parents, the Waterford crystal and her grandmother's heirloom silver—but didn't empty out the home as he had expected her to. Hell, he still had a full set of everyday dishes, pots, pans, casseroles, and flatware.

Haley had been deliberate. She always knew how to send unspoken messages.

Cold hands suddenly gripped his sides. Aaron yelped in surprise at the chilly fingers as Reid maneuvered him into the living room. He allowed Reid to push him into the white high-backed chair with oversized armrests. It wasn't the most comfortable seat—and what _had_ he been thinking when he agreed to Haley's concept of all-white furniture and carpeting?—but it seemed to be Reid's favorite place to start.

Reid pushed the Ottoman to the side and settled between Aaron's legs, deftly working Aaron's belt buckle, button and zipper. One shoe off. One trouser leg off. Underwear slid down and one leg freed. Trousers and boxers were then bunched around the one black leather dress shoe Reid hadn't taken off him.

Quirky, just like Reid. Unconventional, because if you were going to have sex, why not be completely naked? But Reid didn't seem to care. Aaron forced himself not to either. At least, he tried to.

The only time Aaron had been naked around Haley had been while taking a shower and dressing afterwards, or when they had sex. She had always worn a short nightgown—pink, silky, and utterly (demurely) feminine—and had always had her panties folded up under her pillow to be slipped on when they finished. He had always taken the lead, from reverently caressing her skin to gently rubbing her to an orgasm to pushing his penis inside her and keeping his thrusts ... well ... polite, if there was such a thing.

Not too hard, not too fast. As he had performed, Haley had told him how handsome he was, how much she loved him in a sing-song voice that at one time, Aaron had found appealing. No dirty talk. No demands. No nails raking across his back. No other sexual position except for missionary style.

Haley didn't want to be like _those_ women that Aaron had to deal with daily, the ones who had been tortured, sexually abused, murdered ... She had demanded to be his oasis and he had believed it to be acceptable. Normal.

A long, lingering lick on his cock caused Aaron to groan, snapping his attention to the present. Reid began sucking and working his hand up and down. Aaron gripped the armrests of the chair, wanting so badly to thread his hands in Reid's hair, which brushed his lap and made his skin all the more sensitive. He held back, because it wouldn't be good to force Reid ...

Fingers encircled Aaron's wrist and pulled his hand down until it rested on Reid's hair. Aaron made another sound as a surge shot through his body, making his back arch and curling his toes.

Reid was incredibly talented. For all the teasing at the BAU about Reid's lack of experience, his skills as a lover had thoroughly surprised Aaron. He'd expected them both to be fumbling around and Reid to have book nearby for guidance. Instead, Reid easily went from kissing to groping to cocksucking, yet never once made Aaron feel (too) inadequate.

"I'll let you know when something bothers me," he had told Aaron that second night. "I know you'll do the same."

Reid caressed Aaron's balls and inner thighs, eliciting an embarrassing gasp of "Oh God yes," from Aaron as he tightened his grip because, well, it was new territory for him. He swore he felt Reid smiling against his skin.

Haley had only performed fellatio twice—her hair drawn back into a low ponytail—and rarely touched him so intimately. He had once wondered if she had had been sexually abused because, honestly, all the signs were there. It had taken him six months to finally convince himself that she hadn't been, that she had been naturally conservative in her views of sex and what was proper.

Aaron never lasted long when Reid used his mouth. He could feel the orgasm building in the base of his spine. "Close ... so close."

Reid stopped.

The sound Aaron made was an odd cross between a growl and a whimper, but he knew Reid had something else in mind. They usually brought each other close to orgasm then stopped. To finish, they would mutually jack off, suck each other, or rub against each other until they came. Aaron didn't particularly care how they did it, because it was always good.

Better than it ever had been with Haley.

Reid grabbed his tie and pulled him forward into an intense kiss. Aaron slid to his knees from the chair, scooting along the carpet with Reid to get distance from the chair. To his surprise, Reid's trousers were already undone, his hard cock jutting in the air. As he kissed, Aaron wrapped his hand around Reid and began working him, although the angle was awkward and he'd forgotten one of the things that made sex with another man much, much easier: lubrication.

"Mhmm, waitasecond," Reid breathed into his mouth. Aaron heard the jangling of a belt and the click of a cap, and then felt a cool, viscous liquid splash on his hand. Of course, Reid would think of everything.

But before Aaron could feel embarrassed about not keeping lube in his pocket when he knew damn well that he would need it this evening, Reid stroked his cock and promptly derailed Aaron's train of thought. Reid bent backwards with ease and it only took a few moments of positioning until Aaron was on top of Reid, who had worked his own trousers down below his knees, and their cocks slid against each other.

Aaron straddled him, pants still tangled around one leg, toes flexed against the carpet to keep his position although his knees slid occasionally. He wanted to question because this was different than what they had done before and then wondered when he became so obsessed about a sexual routine.

The joy with Reid was that it was always unexpected, always new.

Aaron felt alive when he was with Reid.

"C'mon," Reid murmured breathlessly as his fingers dug into Aaron's ass, urging him.

It was never like this with Haley. Never spontaneous. Never unplanned. Never on the floor of the living room where anyone at the window could see the two of them going at it.

Aaron's movements were not slow and polite; he kept his eyes closed, concentrating. He didn't stare at his lover's face to see if everything was ok. After all, Reid had been quite clear that he'd let him know if something was wrong. Sex was never perfect; there were always adjustments to get the right angle and movements when flesh got twisted unexpectedly or in the way.

But it was good. Always good.

"Yes," Reid groaned as their cocks rubbed and his hands helped Aaron keep the pace. They were both close; Aaron could tell by the change in Reid's breathing patterns.

He had the sudden desire to watch Reid orgasm, to watch as the pleasure contorted his face and erased the seriousness. He wondered if he looked the same when he came. He hoped so.

He opened his eyes.

And stared ...

... at the hair perfectly fanned out against the stark white of the carpet.

Like a halo.

Like the way Haley had always brushed her hair out on the pillows every time before they had made love.

Every ounce of passion drained from Aaron's body. He momentarily froze. His cock went soft. He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't shut out the concerned yet panicked look spreading across Reid's face. Reid let him go.

Aaron choked out a few nonsensical sounds, unable to give an explanation although Reid certainly deserved one. Humiliation hit next and he scrambled to his feet, tripping over his pants before pulling them up awkwardly and racing upstairs.

He wondered when he'd become so weak. So damaged. So uncertain. So unlike the Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent and Unit Chief.

Aaron wondered why the hell Reid put up with him.

 


	2. Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reluctantly, Aaron explains his earlier reactions, but is surprised by Reid's unconditional acceptance of it. Then, the whole mess in New York with the terrorist cell and the car bomb puts a whole new turn on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Season 3's "Lo-Fi" and Season 4's "Mayhem."

**_///***///_ **

**_  
"I do not want a friend who smiles when I smile, who weeps when I weep, for my shadow in the pool can do better than that." - Confucius  
_ **

**_///***///_ **

After his humiliating retreat up the stairs, Aaron stood in the master bath looking into the mirror. The face staring back at him had bloodshot eyes with dark circles, lines around the mouth, and a few gray hairs at the temples.

He glanced at the door, wondering how long it would take Reid to demand to know what was wrong. He then realized that he had retreated to the master bathroom and it was doubtful Reid would cross that particular boundary. That meant, of course, that Aaron would have to go downstairs. The longer he waited, the worse the argument was going to be. He knew the way things worked in this house.

God, he was such a coward.

His white dress shirt was unbuttoned with his blue striped tie undone; he still had his charcoal gray pinstriped suit jacket on, the blue pocket kerchief spilling out. His undershirt was rucked up on one side, showing his right hip and part of his muscled belly. He looked down at his manhood, which glistened slightly from the lube. It just dangled there, soft and useless. His pants were around one ankle.

He cleaned himself and pulled up his underwear and trousers, buttoning and zipping as he took a step towards the door. Aaron paused, fingers touching the doorknob. He took a few deep breaths before opening it then tossing his jacket, tie and dress shirt on the bed.

As Aaron approached the top of the stairs, he was surprised him that Reid wasn’t waiting at the bottom. He recalled quite a few spectacular arguments with Haley in the stairwell, her strident tone echoing as it had turned shrill. He listened carefully but it was quiet.

He made his way down the stairs, pausing as he strained hear something. Anything. There was nothing.

Aaron mentally prepared himself for the confrontation, because obviously, Reid was waiting for him in the living room. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say but he tried to ready himself for Reid yelling at him the moment he stepped foot in the room. Reid suddenly sobbing hysterically. Reid tearfully demanding what he had done to drive Aaron away. Reid wailing about his own inadequacies. Reid viciously (and accurately) accusing Aaron of being a coward and calling in to questing his manhood.

Reid _something_ besides… sitting on that stupid white couch and reading a damn case file.

The sharp smell of coffee hit and he glanced down at the table. One mug was there, the other on the side table next to Reid. It was strange. Odd. Coffee before an argument? The Nespresso machine was the first "Reid" item that now resided at Aaron's house. It showed up before the toothbrush and razor.

He entered the living room. Reid looked up, met his gaze, and then closed the file. Aaron remembered the one time Reid had read aloud passages from TS Eliot, and he had been surprised how expressive Reid’s voice was.

Yet now … No accusations. No demands. Just that damn, patient look.

Aaron looked away and began pacing, trying to find the words, but his mind was blank. Him, the man who battled wits with the bad guys on a regular basis to save lives. Him, seasoned hostage negotiator who lectured at the Bureau.

Him, the man who freaked out over of a halo of hair.

 _Moron. Spineless coward._

“You, ah, may want to take your other shoe off,” Reid said with that touch of hesitant humor that meant he was desperately trying to lighten the mood. But instead of launching into a monologue about hip alignment or the history of chiropractors, Reid simply sat there, waiting.

Aaron stopped and looked down. In all his panic, he hadn’t noticed he was still wearing the one shoe and sock Reid hadn’t removed. His bare foot was tan against the white of the carpet. Haley’s “only poor people walk around without shoes!” rung in his mind. One of the first things he had thrown out after she had left was his stupid monogrammed slippers.

He glanced at the ottoman and the chair, back in their usual position facing the couch. He looked sideways at Reid but didn’t meet his eyes, noting the other man had redressed and looked as if nothing had happened earlier.

Aaron let out a long sigh as he ambled over the couch but sat as far away as possible. He removed his shoe and sock, placing them next the other one under the coffee table. He still refused to look up. Confessions, concessions and apologies were always much easier when he was in a penitent position: hands folded, head down.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” He braced himself for the onslaught of questions that inevitably came whenever he apologized because whatever he said was never good enough. Questions followed by accusations followed by a screaming match followed by Aaron being banished to the guest room and his cell phone being thrown at his head.

When there was no immediate response, Aaron closed his eyes. He hated this part the most. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I … I …”

Reid’s hand was suddenly on his forearm, squeezing hard and causing him to stop speaking. Aaron refused to look up as he felt Reid shift towards him.

Reid’s voice was soft, painfully earnest. “You wouldn’t believe me if I said that there was nothing to apologize for, so … apology accepted.” There was a pause. Delicately, as if he were speaking with an unsub who was two steps away from becoming unhinged, Reid continued, “May I as you something? Actually, it’s more like some _things_ instead of one, but you don’t have to answer any of them. You can tell me to fuck off—”

Aaron jerked his head up, staring squarely at the other man and thoroughly stunned by the use of profanity.

Reid offered a lopsided grin. “Knew that would get your attention.” He waggled his eyebrows before turning serious again. “Anyway, I just want to understand, okay?”

And _that_ comment made Aaron turn his head away.

“I want to _understand_ ,” Reid repeated as he gave a sharp squeeze. “Not to judge.” He let go and flopped back on the couch, his voice taking on that frustrated tone he used when people dismissed him. “I am _not_ judging you. We had an agreement. We’d let each other know if something bothered us. Okay. Well. Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Aaron repeated.

“Right. And now, you want me to argue with you. Well, I won’t.”

Aaron glared at him.

Reid lifted his chin. “I _won’t_ , Hotch.” His gaze didn’t falter. Aaron was stunned by the intensity, the defiance, and—of all the damned things—protectiveness. “So whatever it is, we’ll work through it. You’re too important.”

 **_///***///_ **

**_"Fear is not in the habit of speaking truth."  - Tacitus_ **

**_///***///_ **

The SUV blast had caused hearing damage. The doctor had been blunt about the after-care, specifically that if Aaron didn't allow sufficient time for healing, he would have permanent loss. Even though that should have put the fear of God into him—hearing aids would land him a desk job, not out in the field where he could do more good—Aaron had stubbornly ignored the orders.

Rossi had chewed him out in that special Rossi "I’m you’re friend no matter if you like it or not" kind of way. However, it had been the _Journal of the Academy of Rehabilitative Audiology_ tucked into his briefcase that had really struck home. If he could have stared down Reid for his audaciousness, Aaron would have but had realized that Reid wouldn't have backed down.

"You're too important," Reid had said that night. "We'll work through it."

Aaron's ego had screamed at him about being weak, that Reid was just a kid and shouldn't talk to him that way, shouldn't have the knowledge that he had. Yet, it had been Reid’s bluntness that had allowed Aaron to confess why he had run away. Reid had nodded before his lips had quirked into that small smile. "I don't care how great the sex is. I'm _so_ not cutting my hair."

That had been the first time Aaron had called him "Samson."

But that had been weeks ago. Tonight, Aaron knew that the rest of the team had gotten back two days ago but he had taken his time driving home, his concession to Rossi about a) taking time off and b) not screwing up his hearing even more than it was. He briefly thought about visiting Jack, but Aaron wasn’t up to facing former in-laws who had never approved of his decision to join the BAU. The divorce had only made their attitudes towards him worse.

Perhaps that was why he ended up in front of Reid’s apartment building, not bothering to stop at his own home first. Aaron needed to feel needed. Selfish, for sure, which was why Aaron had gone up to Reid’s door six times in the past seventy-five minutes, poised to knock because Reid hated the doorbell, and then walking away before his knuckles hit the wood.

Him. Unit Chief. SSA. Leader. Unable to work up the nerve. Wasn't Reid supposed to be the insecure one?

The seventh time, he did knock. When there was no immediate answer, Aaron took a chance and rang the doorbell, but didn’t hear it chime. Maybe Reid had finally disabled it. Aaron waited a few minutes before realizing that at 9:43 p.m. on a Thursday night, Spencer Reid wasn’t home.

 _You could call him, you know,_ his mind primly informed him. _That is why you have a cell phone._ He knew that Reid would answer, probably on the second ring. Aaron rested his hand on the phone clipped to his belt before shaking his head.

With Haley, this sort of thing had been easy. In high school, he used to stop by her house unannounced all the time and, if she hadn't been there, he had shrugged it off. Haley had friends. She had played on the varsity volleyball team.

For Aaron to assume that Reid didn’t have friends outside the BAU was ignorant. He knew that Reid had, at one time, been a member of a chess club, and that he also did some community work, although Reid was always deliberately vague about the latter. Aaron never pushed. He also knew that Reid was pursuing a BA in Philosophy, although he never saw him actually working on it.

“—Hotch?” The voice startled Aaron, causing him to whirl and hand sliding from phone to gun.

Reid stood in the hallway, cradling a brown paper bag that had been folded and stapled at the top. Surprise, panic, and curiosity flitted across Reid’s features before finally settling on a raised eyebrow as if to say, “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?” followed by slightly pursed lips, as Reid mulled over the right thing to say.

“I didn’t…” Aaron began but the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat. _You didn’t hear him because of the ringing in your ears,_ his mind sneered. _He probably called your name three times before finally shouting it._

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Reid said but his tone was a bit too forced, a bit too nervously friendly as he held up the bag for emphasis. He then scooted in front of Aaron and unlocked the door. Reid entered, turning on the lights, and deposited the brown bag on the kitchen island.

Aaron took a step inside but pressed the doorbell button. Reid jumped. All Aaron could hear was the muted chime although he knew the thing was loud. He didn’t look up as he closed the door. He didn't let go of the handle either.

Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to change anything. Seeking pity from Reid wasn’t going to help either.

Cool fingers wrapped around Aaron's wrist, tugging until he released his hold on the door. Reid led him to the kitchen and then quickly unpacked a small montage of Chinese takeout. From the cupboard and drawer, he pulled two mismatched plates, a fork, and a pair of chopsticks. The stools were on either side of the island, just like the last time they had shared dinner. After all, Reid's kitchen table was piled with books.

"Chopsticks are all yours," Reid announced as he opened up the first white container. Aaron remembered the time Reid asked for fork because of his lack of chopstick dexterity. Aaron had learned to use the utensils while in Seattle—one had to in order to survive a corporate lunch—but Haley had been all about forks, knives and spoons. He recalled how she had frowned when he had showed off his newly acquired skill.

"Ma Yi Shang Shu ..." Reid continued. "You know, when the restaurant first opened, they listed this dish as 'Ants Climbing Trees'. Given the common misconceptions about what is used in Chinese cooking, it's no surprise they changed it." He opened the second box. "Ah! Steamed dumplings with crab." He waved it under Aaron's nose. "They're not on the menu unless you order it in Cantonese."

That caused Aaron to finally meet Reid's gaze. "Cantonese?" he repeated dumbly, because clearly, tonight wasn't his night for making intelligent conversation.

"Well, you can order in French. At least, you pretend that you can." He grinned crookedly. "You'd be surprised what a few key phrases will win you at the takeout place down the street." He scooped food from one box, then plopped two of the dumplings on his plate.

No questions on why he was here. No questions on why he rang that stupid doorbell. He wondered what the hell Rossi had said to him. Then, exhaustion hit Aaron out of nowhere, pushing out the tension from his shoulders and spine. He wondered if it was perhaps because Reid made eating takeout at the kitchen island so normal.

As Aaron wrestled noodles out of the container, Reid retrieved two short glasses from the cabinet and set them on the table. Then, he pulled a can of Tsingtao beer from the paper bag, opened it, and split the contents between the two glasses.

Reid settled back on the stool. His voice was quiet, reflective. "I'm glad you're here." It was that odd confessional tone Aaron had only heard a few times. "I really didn't want to celebrate alone."

"Celebrate?" knowing that it was the second stupid question he had asked that evening. Aaron went through the dates he knew abou—Reid's birthday, BAU anniversary, college graduation (although which year for which university for which degree was impossible to keep straight)—and came up blank.

Reid picked up his glass, staring at it before saying quietly, "One year, three months."

It hit like a punch to the gut. In the months they had been together, intimate details about each other were few and far between. Sure, they had sex. They had great sex, but that physical intimacy didn't quite translate to emotional intimacy. So when one of them shared something, it was certainly a big deal.

Aaron suddenly recalled the confrontation with Reid— _Spencer_ —three months ago. While working the case, Spencer had been short-tempered, irritable, and his hands had shaken more than usual. Concern had overridden discretion and Aaron had called him on it while in earshot of Rossi and Morgan. “Are you using again?”

Spencer's reaction should have been the clue—raised voice, flailing arms and the pure wounded look in his eyes—but Aaron hadn't relented. Two days after they had returned to Quantico, Spencer had confronted him in his office, slamming the door shut and slapping a coin down on Aaron’s desk.

Angry. Defiant. Daring. So unlike the meek Spencer Reid from three years ago. Spencer didn't just share with anyone, especially things like this. “Twelve months, sixteen hours, forty-three minutes,” Spencer had spat as he had slid the coin towards him. “Do you want to know how many seconds?”

Aaron had been too stunned to reply and had then watched Spencer storm out of his office—deliberately shoulder-checking Morgan on the way back to his desk—and pack up his belongings for the day. Morgan, of course, had chased after him and had earned a “Fuck off, Derek!” for his trouble. The only reason why Morgan hadn’t continued after Spencer had been because Rossi had stopped him. Instead of being angry or perturbed, Aaron had found himself proud. It had still taken three dinners to get things back to normal although neither apologized for their actions.

Now, in the quiet of Spencer's kitchen, Aaron said sincerely, "Congratulations," as he lifted his own glass and tapped it against Spencer's.

Spencer nodded before his lips quirked into a half-smile. "What? No lecture about trading one vice for another?"

"You only purchased one beer," Aaron answered seriously as he speared one of the dumplings with his chopstick. "And ... if you didn't have anyone to share it with, you would have put it in the fridge on the second shelf behind the mayonnaise where the four other cans of Tsingtao are. Where’s the sauce?"

"Sauce? You’re a heathen. Actually, one of those is Sapporo. I bought sushi when I celebrated nine months." Spencer’s pride was obvious.

 _And it should be,_ Aaron told himself. He felt honored that Spencer would share something so private, so personal, with him. He hoped he didn't sound too idiotic as he said softly, "Thank you."

Spencer's grin was back as he nodded, launching into the details about Dry Senso, the Japanese breweries’ war over dry beer. Aaron listened as he ate, surprised at the quality of the takeout. Maybe he should learn some Cantonese, too.

 _**///***///** _

_**"Progress comes from the intelligent use of experience."**_ — _**Elbert Hubbard  
**_

 _**///***///** _

After dinner, they shared a few casual kisses on the couch until Spencer declared, "You're totally rank," his nose wrinkling as he pulled out of the embrace. "You are definitely taking a shower."

Aaron protested mildly as Spencer pushed him towards the bathroom, but he gave in after being handed a towel and a washcloth. When he was finished, he pulled back the shower curtain and he stared stupidly at the undershirt and sweatpants on the toilet seat. His other clothes and shoes were nowhere in sight.

 _You didn’t hear him come in, jackass!_ his mind sneered. _Some FBI **you** are!_ But that was quickly countered by, _Are you **seriously** going to turn down Spencer’s invitation?_

He dressed quickly despite the nerves welling up in his belly. He’d only been here a few times and those had all been confined to the couch except for once. Spencer had sat on the countertop and had gotten them both off, an event that still boggled Aaron’s mind.

Yet now, the lights in the apartment had been turned off except for those in the bedroom. Aaron had a feeling Spencer would hold his clothing hostage until he got whatever he wanted.

Strangely enough, he was okay with that.

The bedroom was dominated by a California King bed. Spencer was propped up by a mound of pillows against the headboard with two books and a notebook to his side. He furiously tapped the laptop keyboard and used a third book as a makeshift lap desk. The younger man looked devastatingly sexy in blue seersucker pajamas and horn-rimmed glasses. Aaron stood in the doorway, momentarily confused.

Spencer patted the place next to him but didn’t look up. “Just need to finish this up. Fifteen minutes max. The paper’s not due until Monday but this professor … well … I’m not sure why I’m even _in_ the class. For some reason, I opted not to test of out of it. Anyway, he’s rejected two of my theses because apparently, I’m referencing materials that should only be used by fourth year students.” He glanced up and then dramatically appraised Aaron from top to bottom. A smile broke across his features. _“N-i-i-i-ce,”_ he said in that approving, lusty tone before going back and typing some more.

It was both flattering and a little embarrassing; it had been years since Haley had paid him any kind of compliment like that. Aaron crawled into bed, adjusting some of the pillows. He wasn’t quite sure what to say; he remembered his own college career, graduating, passing the bar exam, and running like hell because he was sick of studying. So, he settled underneath the covers on his side, facing Spencer, with the intention of waiting until he had finished so that they could celebrate properly.

Aaron hadn't planned on promptly falling asleep.

When he woke up at 3:36 a.m.—Spencer had at least four clocks in the bedroom—humiliation burned his cheeks. Christ, he was old. For the umpteenth time, he wondered why the hell Spencer put up with him. He slipped out of bed.

The room wasn't completely dark because the glow from the digital clocks and he could see Spencer sleeping on his side, facing the spot Aaron just vacated. He then navigated his way to the bathroom, thankful for the strategically placed nightlights. Spencer had more books than bookshelves, which meant some were scattered in the hallway, underneath furniture, and other odd places and they always threatened to trip Aaron when he was here.

In the bathroom, he did his business and he washed his hands. Aaron considered searching for his ready bag and leaving; after all, he had dry cleaning to drop off, bills to pay, and checking online to make sure the child support payment had been debited. Haley had been pissed when it was late last month, refusing to admit that it was her fault for giving him the wrong account number to her new bank.

He barely looked up as he exited and plowed right into Spencer.

Aaron opened his mouth to say something, to deny that he was thinking about taking off, to fend off whatever accusation Spencer was certainly going to hurl at him. Haley had perfected the outside-the-bathroom confrontation; those had been the worse. "Where are you going now?" "I see someone else's family has taken priority over ours. Again!" "I had to hire a handyman out of the phone book to fix the garage door because you kept forgetting to find one!" "I had to put up the Christmas decorations by myself! Just like last year! When you had promised last year that you would be here this year!"

The words, however, caught in his throat. Aaron looked at Spencer—really looked this time not just a glance before looking down at the floor. Mussed brown hair that framed his face charmingly. Pale skin with sparse facial hair that could go days without shaving. Brown eyes that Aaron had a particular weakness for staring at him quizzically yet sleepily. The lapels of the blue pajamas in the periphery, one corner flipped up. Long graceful fingers reaching up to cover a jaw-cracking yawn.

Aaron slid his hand along Spencer's collar before threading his fingers in his hair, tilting his head slightly, and kissing him firmly. He didn't have to bend down, just lean into the body before him. He ran his tongue along Spencer's lips briefly before delivering a series of soft nips along his jaw. He usually wasn't this spontaneous—hell, the word "never" came to mind. Spencer always made the first move.

Yet there was no question where 'the mood' had come from. No reprimand of "Now? Do you have any idea what time it is?" No insisting that "For Christ's sake, Aaron! At least brush your teeth!" No protest that they were out in the hallway.

"Mmpf," Spencer said then placed two fingers on Aaron's lips before mumbling, "hold that thought," and scooting by him into the bathroom. "Really." He gave him a gentle push forward before closing the door. No questions. No arguments. No accusations. Just the simple fact that Spencer had to use the toilet.

Aaron went back to the bedroom and stretched out under the sheets, adjusting his hard-on. He wasn't sure where the sudden horniness came from but it felt good to be affectionate and not be either condemned or eyed suspiciously for it. He closed his eyes as he stroked himself casually, wondering if Spencer was really up for sex at 4 a.m.

He felt the bed dip as Spencer crawled in, approaching from the bottom and moving up until he straddled Aaron's knees.

"Starting without me?" Spencer teased as he yanked the sheet back.

Yet instead of being embarrassed that he'd been discovered—Aaron did not want to think about the time Haley caught him jacking off in the shower—confidence blossomed in his belly. He opened his eyes and deadpanned, "I'm holding that thought."

Spencer grinned and Aaron sat up, grabbing and pulling him forward. Once the other man was close enough, Aaron passionately kissed him. He felt his shirt being tugged up and nails raking across his lower back. He groaned, still unused to the pleasure and the touch.

Quickly, Aaron worked the buttons of Spencer's shirt, pulling it off him before he yanked off his own tee and threw it to the floor. He licked Spencer's neck and collarbone while lightly pinching a nipple; Spencer arched and gasped. As quirky as Spencer was about being touched when in public, behind closed doors was entirely different. It was a contradiction that often left Aaron confused and uncertain just what he could do.

"Yes, yes," Spencer moaned as he rocked in Aaron's lap and dragged his nails up Aaron's back.

He shut his rational mind down because he didn't want to hear Haley's voice telling him that he was some kind of sex offender for enjoying this. He dumped Spencer on his back—a trick he wasn't quite sure how he managed—and yanked on the waistband of the pajama pants.

 _I'll let you know when something bothers me_ , Spencer frequently told him.

Aaron prayed fervently it was true.

Spencer lifted his hips and Aaron slid the pants off—no underwear, Aaron noted as another jolt of lust raced through him. As he took Spencer's cock in his mouth, the scent of Irish Spring hit and he groaned. Oh hell yes Spencer was up for sex at 4 a.m. It was then Aaron remembered that his lover didn't keep traditional hours, sleeping at odd times during the day if he could and working on his degree at oh-god-awful in the morning because it was the quietest time.

Long fingers latched on to his hair, urging him. "Suck me. Yeah, that's it. Take it deeper."

Aaron had a kink for Spencer talking dirty to him. He obliged, thrilled at the way Spencer responded to him with moans and shudders. He caressed Spencer’s balls as he spread his legs wider, eager to touch and explore. Haley had never allowed such intimate contact. Aaron had only attempted to perform cunnilingus once—back in Seattle after listening to one of the guys brag—and had ended up sleeping on the couch of their two bedroom apartment for a week.

Aaron had no idea where all his confidence was coming from. Perhaps because Spencer was so damn expressive and there was no mistaking his arousal. Aaron had stopped counting how many times Haley had pretended to get off; she wasn’t a champion faker by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been easier to let it slide than have her cruelly assess his talents.

When he dared to stroke Spencer’s perineum—Christ, he was going to have to stop using such technical terms—Spencer cried out, “Yes!”

He continued the assault, sliding his index finger along the crevice of his ass and brushing his hole. Spencer continued to writhe, making encouraging sounds. Suddenly, Spencer bolted upright, momentarily startling him, and he yanked open the nightstand drawer, pawed through the contents, and pulled out a vial of lube.

“Scoot to the floor,” Spencer panted, eyes glazed with lust. “You’ll get a better angle.” He then held out the lube. Aaron hesitantly took it but again obeyed Spencer’s wishes. It took a few moments until he was down on his knees at the side of the bed, between Spencer’s spread legs. “Touch me,” Spencer said softly as he stroked himself. “Please.”

Aaron forced the nerves from his hands. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to graduate to this level, but the way Spencer bit his lower lip in anticipation made him want to please his lover more than anything else. The lube was cold on his fingers and he rubbed his thumb, forefinger, and index finger together to warm it up a little. Then, Aaron began sucking Spencer's cock as he worked his fingers down.

"That's it," Spencer panted. "Yeah. Around like that. Ahh! Good. Don't stop."

Fingering Spencer's ass while he sucked him off made his own cock rock hard. As he slid a finger in and out, Spencer moved to where he was propped up on both elbows, toying with his nipple as he watched. It should have been unnerving, but the look in Spencer's eyes gave Aaron the courage to be bolder. He dared to add a second finger and was rewarded with Spencer gasping and arching, complete with an "Ahhh ... yesss!" hissed breathlessly.

When he twisted his fingers, Spencer let out a sharp cry. Aaron immediately stopped. He moved to withdrawal, fearing he'd hurt him, when Spencer's hand latched to the back of his neck, holding him in place.

"Prostate," Spencer gasped. "Good thing. Don't stop. Please. Please don't stop."

Although embarrassed—for Christ's sake he should know about that—Aaron resumed, earning a plethora of moans and demands to go faster. He wasn't sure why he didn't obey the last part, keeping his pace slow and methodical. Perhaps because he felt so damn powerful, that he could elicit such an unabashed response from someone.

It was only when Spencer let out a mewling, _"Pleasedon’tstopsoclosesoclose"_ that Aaron picked up his pace, making sure to hit Spencer’s prostate with each thrust. Spencer came with a shout, his back arching and fingers digging in to Aaron’s skull. Aaron swallowed and when the grip finally loosened, delivered a series of kisses along Spencer’s inner thighs as he slid his fingers out.

As he withdrew, Aaron stood and turned on the bedside lamp. His Spencer was sprawled on the bed, looking completely debauched and utterly, mind-blowingly sexy. Aaron’s cock ached and he rubbed himself through the material. His mind raced through things that he could do: jack off and have his come splatter on Spencer’s chest. Spencer sucking him off. Spencer jacking him off. Spencer fingering him and jacking or sucking him off.

But all those took a backseat. “I want you.” And Christ Aaron couldn’t believe he just said that. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this aroused, yet this nervous, more so than that first time that they were together. He wasn’t sure what to say, to convey precisely what he wanted to do because his mouth would simply not form those words, so he repeated, “I want you, Spencer.”

The other man was still panting, blinking a few times as if to process the request. Then Spencer gracefully got to his feet, pressing his entire body against Aaron’s.

“How do you want me?” Spencer asked, lips brushing his. His hands squeezed Aaron’s ass before he licked his neck. Aaron’s knees buckled slightly because that was one of the places that completely and utterly turned him on. Spencer continued his assault, voice soft, husky and seductive. “Like I was before? So you can watch?”

“I … I …” his breathing sped up but it had nothing to do with his arousal. He forced himself look at the ceiling as he pleaded, “Not … not that way. Please. I don’t know how. This? I don’t know … Christ … I …”

Spencer promptly kissed him, effectively shutting him up as he pushed down Aaron’s sweats. He was maneuvered until the back of his knees were against the bed and Spencer nudged him to sit. Lips brushed the shell of his ear, another intense erogenous zone as of late. “Lay down,” he said as he blindly rooted through the nightstand drawer. “Trust me.”

Aaron wanted to retort that that was all he had been doing as of late: trusting Spencer. Yet he complied wordlessly as Spencer arranged him on the bed, his head resting on a few pillows and sweatpants tangled around one ankle. Spencer straddled his belly, assaulting his neck and collarbone with licks and nips while reaching back. He could feel the condom being rolled down his cock and then Spencer stroking him.

“Are you okay with this?” Spencer asked softly, hair curtaining around his face.

“I should be asking you that,” he replied as he slid his hands to Spencer’s hips. “But yes. I am. I want you.”

Spencer favored him with a small smile before leaning back slightly. It was then Aaron could feel his cock pressing against him and then slowly sliding in. He gasped, surprised by the tightness and the heat.

“God,” he muttered and wondered why the hell they hadn’t done this before. It took a few minutes until he was all the way in, Spencer’s breathing controlled while Aaron’s was erratic.

Intense. Amazing. Different. He was at Spencer’s mercy as the younger man began an agonizingly slow pace, shifting as if trying to work the right angle. Spencer bit his lower lip again as his fingers trailed across Aaron’s chest and flicked his nipples.

“Unfair,” he panted as he stroked Spencer’s hip and thighs.

“Good?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Hmmm … God …” Spencer grinned and went just a little faster. “I could get used to that.”

“Great, feeding your ego,” he replied as his eyes slipped closed. He’d never bantered while having sex. Ever. It was odd. Quirky. _Spencer._

“You said I needed more self-confidence.”

“Out in the field. Not here. You’ve got enough for both of us and then some.” He meant it as a tease, but it came out flatter than he expected. Spencer licked his neck and lightly bit his collar bone, earning a “God, you’re amazing.”

“Then tell me what you want,” Spencer coaxed. “Harder. Softer. Faster. Slower.” He kissed him and said against his lips, “I’m not going to break. I’ll let you know if something bothers me.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

“Faster,” Aaron finally said. “Please.” He was rewarded by an increased pace and he could feel the slow build of an orgasm.

“Touch me.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“Here?”

“That works.”

“God, Spencer.”

“Faster?”

“Please …” Aaron opened his eyes and took in the sight of Spencer riding his cock, hair swaying with the rhythm. He stroked Spencer’s semi-hard cock, knowing it was unlikely he’d be able to get off so soon. The second night they were together, he’d earned a lecture on post-orgasmic refractory periods.

Different. Intense. Sex had always been a duty. Intercourse part of the specific, set routine. One way. One position. One rhythm. Nothing ever like this. No lover caressing his skin, stroking his nipples, riding him with such grace and confidence. Yet as good as it was, Spencer’s pace was torturous, just fast enough to keep him in frustratingly in limbo.

“Please … faster … please.” It wasn’t begging, was it? No. This was simply giving his lover guidance, just as Spencer had done earlier.

It was then Spencer went from casual to a driving rhythm, the change causing Aaron to unexpected cry out from the sheer pleasure. It was like his body suddenly was on fire yet all sensation was clearly focused on his cock.

“Spencer,” he breathed, hands now gripping the other man’s hips as the pace continued to increase. He could feel the muscles moving under his hands and prayed that Spencer wouldn’t tire out before he came.

When Spencer began tweaking his nipples, another surge of arousal coursed through Aaron and suddenly, his balls began to tighten up as his orgasm was just … almost … there.

“Close,” Aaron panted. “So close. Please. Don’t stop. Please. Please …” Spencer shifted slightly and then somehow managed to caress Aaron’s balls. The sensation was so overwhelming that when he called out, "Spencer" it morphed into "Spence-ahh!" and he kept repeating that until finally, blessedly … he came.

Hard. His back arched. His toes curled. And for the love of God, he swore he saw stars right before blackness took over.

Aaron jolted … awake? He wasn’t sure. He blindly reached out and hit Spencer’s hip. He turned his head and stared.

“Welcome back,” Spencer said, his lips curved into a smug yet satisfied smile.

“Spencer.”

The other man beamed. “Yes?”

“Are … you … what? Ah. Hurt you?”

“Hurt?” Spencer’s raised an eyebrow then shook his head. “Nope.”

“But …”

“Oh sure, I’m _sore_ ,” he replied with an expression that could put Morgan’s shit-eating grin to shame. “But I’m sore in that, ‘I fucked Aaron Hotchner until he came screaming my name before he passed out’ kind of sore.” He let out a laugh as he trailed fingers up Aaron’s chest. “I’m good with that.”

Aaron winced, closing his eyes. “Christ.”

“Actually, according to you, I’m God.”

He opened one eye and tried to muster a glare, but couldn’t. “You’re going to be insufferable at work,” he muttered.

“Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“We’re _profilers,_ ” he shot back lamely.

“Which means Morgan will go crazy as he tries to figure things out,” he chuckled as he tangled himself around him. “But, Aaron… a gentleman _never_ tells. And _I_ am a perfect gentleman.”


	3. The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron attempts to offer comfort after Reid's ordeal at Cyrus' compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Season 4's "Minimal Loss"

_**///***///** _

**_"Life is the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises."_** — _ **Samuel Butler (1612-1680)**_

 **_///***///_ **

Sure, the rest of the team had noticed Spencer's growing confidence and all guessed that it was due to a blossoming relationship. Just as Spencer had predicted, Morgan made it his personal mission to find out who Spencer was seeing. And as Spencer promised, he refused to give away any details despite Morgan's creative ways of trying to get the younger man to trip up.

"C'mon, man," Morgan prodded, draping an arm around Spencer's shoulders as they sat next to each other on the jet. The invasion of personal space clearly made the younger man uncomfortable, something Morgan was counting on.

 _Son of a bitch._

"So what does Abigail do for a living?" It was an obvious tactic, but one indicating just how desperate Morgan was. Guess the name. Use it repeatedly in a conversation in hopes the suspect will grow frustrated enough with the badgering to correct the interrogator.

"Your Jedi mind-tricks won't work on me," Spencer replied without glancing up from the book he was blazing through despite looking as if he was ready to bolt from the chair.

"I bet she's one hot mamma," Morgan continued. "C'mon. You're not embarrassed of her, are you? You know we won't judge. We just want you to be happy. You know that, man."

"Then stop prying into my personal life," he retorted.

"Whoa-ho!" Morgan immediately leaned back, hands held up in surrender. "Wait … ah ha! Spencer's got himself a cougar!"

Prentiss and JJ stifled their laughter. Aaron hoped to God he didn't twitch because Dave was directly across from him. Age was the one thing that really bothered him in the relationship, although Spencer was adamant that it wasn't an issue. He continued his paperwork, only looking up after Spencer had completed his monologue on the mating habits of cougars and how the term was inaccurately used to describe a relationship between an older woman and a younger man.

Dave was staring at him with one eyebrow cocked slightly. Aaron kept his features perfectly blank. Only then did Dave's lips lift into the barest of smiles—the one that said, _You're trying too damn hard to play it cool_ —and Aaron knew he had made a mistake.

Then again, those on his team were the best. He'd made sure of it. If someone hadn't figured it out by now, then perhaps he should reevaluate how effective they were as a whole.

Still, Aaron wondered what concessions he'd have to make so that Dave would keep his damn mouth shut for just a little while longer. Of course, other man had his fair share of indiscretions … but was Spencer really an indiscretion? Aaron stopped himself right there, unwilling to allow his mind to chase down that beaten path of logic.

"Hah!" Morgan declared as he stood up and pointed to Spencer. "Gotcha, pretty boy! She's older! Oooh-whoo! Hot cougar mama teaching my boy the ropes." He ruffled Spencer's hair, which earned an indignant yelp.

"Dad!" Spencer suddenly called out. "Morgan's picking on me!"

It wasn't the ladies who howled in laughter; it was Dave. _Bastard,_ Aaron thought. Worse, it wasn't Aaron doing the teaching. That was the other thing that bothered him about the relationship: he was totally dependant on Spencer just to _know_ what he was thinking, guess what was freaking him out, come up with a solution so that the awkward pauses weren't too awkward.

He warned with his best parental tone, "Children …"

JJ giggled appropriately. Prentiss snorted. Dave coughed out another laugh.

"C'mon, Hotch!" Morgan protested as he ambled down to where Aaron was. "You gotta admit you're curious. Look at our boy. Cocky. Confident. He's got that whole pride thing going on."

Knowing he had to play along, Aaron asked, "Reid, who have you been seeing?"

"A gentleman _never_ tells," Spencer replied primly. "And _I_ , sir, am a perfect gentleman."

Aaron looked at Morgan. "There you go."

Morgan groaned and settled into the seat. Dave patted his knee affectionately. "Don't worry, Derek. He'll break soon. They all do."

 _**///***///** _

**_"To believe is very dull. To doubt is intensely engrossing. To be on the alert is to live, to be lulled into security is to die."  
_** — _**Oscar Wilde**_

 **_///***///_ **

There were cases that went bad and cases that went spectacularly bad. And then, there were cases that went spectacularly bad involving Spencer. Aaron had always been protective of his youngest team member yet now struggled to find the balance between concern as a supervisor and concern as a lover.

God, Aaron hated cults. He hated pompous state attorney generals even more. There had been a certain satisfaction in telling that asshole off because if they _had only known_ , Prentiss and Spencer would not have been held hostage by the cult. Jessica wouldn't have necessarily died, her baby growing up an orphan. Nancy Lunde would not have been shot dead. Prentiss wouldn't have been beaten. Spencer wouldn't be weighed down with guilt despite being the key in helping them break the case.

Aaron understood exactly why Prentiss had offered herself up as the infiltrator to Benjamin Cyrus, why she had endured the beating. He would have done the same. Hell, the whole team would have done the same. Spencer had been through too much already and a drug addiction was never cured, just managed. They never said it aloud but it was always on their minds. Aaron's especially.

"Reid…" Aaron started as they walked towards the jet. He touched his lover on the forearm, a rarity in public, to hold him back.

Spencer fixed a glare on his hand and then him. Aaron could see the wall going up and knew that the more he pushed, the more Spencer would withdrawal. Spencer then spat stiffly, "You should be checking after Em. She was the one who was hurt, not me. I've survived bomb blasts before. So has Morgan. And I'm _really_ not in the mood to be asked certain questions about my personal life, Hotch, even if you _are_ my supervisor."

Spencer stalked up the jet's stairs.

 _I'm not going to break._ His lover's whispered words echoed in Aaron's head, as did the younger man's frustration that everyone seemed to treat him with kid gloves. _I'll let you know when something bothers me._ True to his word, Spencer had. No spinach. No room in total darkness. Never starting a sentence with "If you're so smart, then why …" No kisses or touches on Spencer's inner elbows _ever_.

Aaron stood there a few moments before making his way on board. He did talk with Prentiss, who swore up and down she was fine despite her injuries as she continually glanced at Spencer with protective concern. No wonder Spencer still felt like he was treated special. Aaron even overheard the conversation she had with Spencer, how she'd do it again in a heartbeat.

If only Prentiss had said, "You know how cults operate, Reid. You _made_ that connection with Cyrus. You _convinced_ him to release those kids. He wouldn't have listened to me. Women in his mind were inferior. You had him at Benjamin Franklin."

Logic. Facts. That was how to ease Spencer's mind, not an emotional appeal.

The rest of the flight was spent in relative quiet, the team either doing paperwork or crashed out. It wasn't until they were thirty-minutes out that Morgan approached Spencer, hands held up in mock surrender as he declared quietly, "Just want to talk. No teasing."

Spencer regarded him warily but still gave a faint nod.

Morgan's voice was pitched low but Aaron could decipher it easily. Funny how the team had conversations around him while he did paperwork, as if he wouldn't eavesdrop. It wasn't intentional. They should know better.

"Look, man. Do _not_ let what happened back there get to you," Morgan told Spencer firmly. "I can see you closing up, shutting down. You can't _do_ that. You get yourself on that phone and call your girl. You go out with her, go dancing, go do trivia contests … hell, go to a _Star Trek_ convention. But don't think about the case, okay? You go out with your girl tonight, you lose yourself with her …"

"What the _hell_ is it with you and my personal life?" Spencer hissed viciously.

"Hey!" Morgan began but Spencer cut him off.

"Will you just _stop?_ You don't go chasing after anyone else when a case goes bad. No. Just me. I'm not a child. You don't need to coddle me. You act as if I can't handle things. You're all focused on _me_ when you should be worried about Emily. Talking to her. Paying attention to her."

" ... the hell, man?"

Spencer rocketed to his feet, body tense and hands at his sides. Aaron dreaded what was coming next. He and Spencer had only argued a few times, but when they had, it had been intense, especially when the normally spastic Spencer became completely still. The thing about arguing with a genius who just happened to be a profiler was that he knew exactly what the weaknesses were and used them with calculating efficiency.

Spencer's words were now low, cruelly tinged. He leaned towards Morgan and delivered the blow: "You want a repeat of Elle? You were her party buddy, but _I_ was her friend. You took her to Jamaica, but _I_ was the **only** one who talked to her after what happened. _You_ never did. You blew her off. Maybe if you had given a shit about Elle, she wouldn't have—"

"Wait one fucking second," Morgan snapped, getting to his feet as well and rolling his shoulders forward.

"Hey!" Dave stepped between the two and physically pushed them apart. Prentiss and JJ were now fully awake and watching. Aaron found himself unable to move, pen poised over the paperwork. Dave's voice was deadly soft, hard and even. "Give it a rest. _Both_ of you."

Spencer bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly ready to continue. God only knew what other ammo he had lined up but Dave held his gaze. Morgan flexed his hands twice, a gesture Aaron knew all too well. Spencer had scored deeply, unfairly perhaps. There was that unspoken rule not to bring Elle's or Gideon's departures into an argument.

It was Spencer who backed down first, storming to the back of the jet and muttering, "Jesus fucking Christ!"—a deliberate effort to shock the team because the belief that Spencer Reid didn't curse—as he threw himself bodily into one of the chairs. He crossed his arms, stretched his legs out, and stared down anyone who dared to meet his eyes.

"Sit," Dave pushed at Morgan before giving Aaron the _Talk to him look_.

Aaron glanced back and found Spencer's hard gaze on him: _Don't even **try** it_. If Spencer had pulled out the Elle comment on Morgan, Aaron knew that there was the possibility that Haley was on the horizon. The last thing he wanted to hear was Spencer's assessment of that relationship, especially in front of the others.

No. Spencer wouldn't go that far. He'd stay on the Elle Train because that was a shared, raw wound. Aaron was sure of it.

Still, he didn't risk it. He was, after all, a coward, no matter what Spencer said.

The rest of the trip was spent in awkward silence and when they landed, the team except Aaron and Spencer quickly deplaned. Aaron took the seat across from him, hands folded loosely and really not wanting to have this conversation.

"You're going to tell me to apologize to Morgan," Spencer said flatly. "And that I was out of line for bringing up Elle."

"I'm not going to tell you something you already know."

"What about how our relationship disrupts team dynamics? That you felt you couldn't reprimand me in public because you feared of what I may say?"

Aaron sighed. He'd learned not to really bullshit Spencer the fourth time they were together. "Yes, I was concerned about what you might say, but that doesn't mean I didn't agree with you to a certain extent. We didn't reach out to Elle. _I_ didn't. I failed her. I made certain assumptions about the team. We lost a good agent . We lost a good friend. _I_ lost a good friend."

Spencer didn't reply immediately. Finally, "Are we done?"

"It's late. I'll drive you home."

"No."

Aaron blinked.

Spencer scrubbed his face with his hands as he stood. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not offering to be one."

"I'm not in the mood to be your bitch."

Aaron shot to his feet, grabbing Spencer's arm roughly, his thumb on the curve of the elbow and made Spencer flinch. _Fuck the rules._

"You're _not_ ," Aaron snapped, more wounded by the words than he thought he could be. "Never. How can you even say that?"

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Then. Let. Me. Go." He shook him off, picked up his messenger bag, and brushed by him. He turned to face Aaron at the top of the jet way. "I need some time, Aaron. I need to think this through."

With that, Spencer left.

Aaron collapsed in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing himself not to punch the table in front of him.

It was supposed to be different this time.

Different.


	4. Rains and Pours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Spencer demands a break in their relationship after the events in "Minimal Loss," Aaron is at a loss on how to handle things until Dave needles him about "fighting for what he wants." Yet when Aaron shows up at Spencer's apartment, he's not expecting competition.

**///***///  
**

 **"Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured."  
** — **Mark Twain  
**

 **///***///**

Aaron always liked storms. As a child, he used to stare out the bay window of his parent's house for hours, watching the lightening dance across the sky and counting hippopotami until the thunder clapped. He wondered if Spencer did the same as a kid. Or was Spencer like Sean, sleeping on the floor of his parents' bedroom, shaking from fear that the lightening would strike too close, too fast?

He sipped his wine as he slouched in the beanbag chair in front of the French doors to the backyard. Television really held no interest. Infomercials, sports highlights, and reruns of procedural dramas that he hated because juries nowadays expected all the evidence to be presented like on TV.

He'd steadily worked through half a bottle of rioja, a heavy Spanish red. He'd selected it to go with the pathetic "meal to go" from the grocery. Aaron wondered what the hell he had been thinking when he bought the store-made paella. Honestly. Questionable rice with mussels and clams?

He should have ordered take out from that little mom and pop restaurant that Dave frequented. All he had to do was mention Dave's name and Mama Bianchi herself would come out from the kitchen with Pasta O Furnu Catanisa and Mele Cotte Ripiene. She would insist on the wine to go with the meal, ask who he was sharing it with, and then fuss over him because Aaron was "too skinny."

God only knew what she would do if she ever saw Spencer.

Rossi. Bianchi.

Red. White.

Aaron supposed he was blue nowadays.

Lightening flash.

 _One hippopotamus. Two hippopotami. Three hippopotami._

Thunderclap.

The heart of the storm was three miles away.

He glanced at his cell phone: 9:47 p.m. Thursday. Chinese takeout night. At least, that's what Aaron had decided to call it in his mind. The NA meetings were something Spencer simply didn't talk about; Aaron never pushed.

But the fact it was Thursday bothered him because he _wasn't_ with Spencer. After that first time, Aaron began showing up at Spencer's apartment after 9:45 p.m. They'd share whatever take out Spencer brought home with a few cups of Nespresso coffee; Tsingtao beer was reserved for milestones. Then, they would celebrate. Funny that for the first time in his life, sex was truly a joyous occasion.

Yet since that discussion on the plane after the Cyrus case, Aaron hadn't had any contact with Spencer outside of work. Five weeks and counting. Spencer staunchly turned down every offer to drive him home, to have dinner together, to do something even if it wasn't sex. He had made it blatantly clear that Aaron wasn't welcome at his apartment. Hell, the man even hung up on Aaron once a conversation turned from work to personal.

Aaron knew that, technically, Spencer was a rebound. Those relationships were never supposed to last. Aaron had seen so many of his colleagues get burned by them. Dave fully admitted that Wife Number Two had been a pity fuck and an attempt to maintain some sort of accepted social normalcy for a man in his mid-thirties.

Aaron thought he would never fall for it. He was too smart. Too selective. Too _Aaron Hotchner_ to even think about it. After all, Haley was supposed to be until death did they part.

He sipped the wine. He wondered what the name of Haley's lover was. It wouldn't be that hard to find out, not even requiring a favor from Garcia, just the cell phone bills. He just never bothered to. Wasn't worth the effort. He didn't want to know because then he'd automatically profile the person based just on the name.

Another lightening flash.

 _One hippopotamus. Two hippopotami._

Thunderclap.

The heart of the storm was two miles away.

He didn't want to think about the conversation with Dave this morning, but it wouldn't go away. Dave had been his typical blunt self, almost too omniscient if Aaron really thought about it. Then again, Aaron had been around for the collapse with Wife Number Two and had endured the pub crawl when the divorce papers had been signed. He'd never puked so much in his entire life; that had also been the last time Haley had allowed him out with "the boys." Maybe this had been Dave's way of repaying that old debt.

Dave had closed the door behind him and had sat on the corner of Aaron's desk. "You're miserable." Bold. Arrogant. Classic David Rossi. "So is Spencer. He's just doing a better job at hiding it. Else, we're cutting him a helluva lot more slack nowadays."

He had wanted to be surprised at Dave's frankness, to be angry that Dave would dare bring the subject up at the office. His tone had been reproachful, icy. "This, coming from the man who ...."

"This is not about me, Aaron. It's about you. You being stupid. Spencer doesn't know any better. He's confused. Unsure of himself. Christ, do you have any idea how many times in the past month that he's gone up to your office but turned around half-way there?"

"No." Surprise had made the answer slip out too quickly. He had tried to cover it with: "And how does that involve me?"

"You gave up after your little one-on-one with him after the Cyrus case."

"What?"

"You're sitting in here, thinking that he's rejecting you when out there, he just wants acknowledgement that he stood up for himself."

"Dave ..."

"The man kicked Morgan in the balls about Greenaway. Sure, he apologized for it—something I think he _shouldn't_ have done but it shows he doesn't necessarily subscribe to conventional or profiler wisdom." Dave had crossed his arms, staring down at him like he was a rookie.

Anger had made Aaron spit out, "I _did_ admit I was wrong about Elle."

"That wasn't what he was looking for."

"And suddenly, the man with three ex-wives suddenly has all the insight?"

Dave had actually smiled. "I know where I went wrong. And I know a damn good thing when I see it. Whatever the hell is going on with you, Aaron, he's got it figured out. He just doesn't know what to do."

Aaron had glared. Finally, he had spit out, "Like I know what the hell I'm doing," because maybe the guy with three ex-wives actually _did_ know something useful and was willing to share.

Dave's smile had grown bigger. "I know that you _don't_ have to be Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner when you're together. Working long hours and being called away is no longer a factor. You _don't_ have to be perfect. You don't have to make all these promises about being somewhere, doing chores, or God knows what else. You make mistakes and he doesn't crucify you for it."

His gaze, he was sure, had turned lethal.

Dave had shrugged before delivering, "You have to fight for what you want, Aaron."

A sucker punch. Bastard. If it had been anyone else, he would have said "fuck off." Instead, he had met the gaze of the one man in the place who would understand. His words had been forced because it had hurt to admit. "I didn't fight for Haley."

"Bullshit."

He had narrowed his eyes.

Dave had bared his teeth a little. "Rumor has it that you resigned from the Bureau to make her happy. If that's not fighting for something, I don't know what the hell is. You did everything you could to make things work. You need to admit to yourself that it takes two to tango and Haley stopped dancing a long time ago. She had a plan, Aaron. She wanted to be the wife of a district attorney who would run for political office. While else would she have bitched so much about _not_ having to throw dinner parties?

"Spencer? He's that shy guy in the corner convinced that no one will ever ask him to dance, much less keep him out on the floor for the more than one pity song."

"That's pretty clichéd, Dave."

"Clichéd, yes. But true." He had let out a long sigh before shaking his head. "Look, I can't tell you what the rest of the team has figured out. Right now, the bets are that you're doing the whole 'Gideon-father figure-mentoring' thing and Spencer's torn up because he's disappointed you somehow. I happen to think it's a little more. A lot more. Then again, I've known you longer."

"And when the rest of the team figures out? Fraternization ..."

"Damn. You really _are_ blind." Dave had laughed. "You remember what Morgan said before all this mess. They just care that Spencer's happy. That you're happy. The girls?" Only David Rossi could get away with referring to three female agents that way and not get slapped. "They're not judgmental. As for Morgan ... he spilled his coffee in his lap when Spencer corrected him on _gender_ but hasn't pressed the issue since."

"This is exactly why ...."

"Morgan will get over it. More than anything, he'll appreciate your discretion." Dave had then moved from the edge of his desk to the door. "Although he has said that he will put the head of the man who breaks Spencer's heart on a stick. I'd hate to lose our SAC that way." He had opened the door. "It's Thursday, Aaron. The only day of the week you leave precisely at 6:45 p.m. and offer Spencer a ride home. Friday is the only morning your two arrive in tandem with coffee from the same shop and you have a smile that doesn't look forced. Think about it."

Now, Aaron stared out the French doors as the rain pummeled the outdoor furniture, soaking the flowered seat cushions that he absolutely despised.

Another lightening flash.

 _One hippopotamus._

Thunderclap.

The heart of the storm was one mile away.

Aaron pushed himself out of the chair, glass tipping over and spilling the red wine on the pale beige of the carpet. It was after Jack's bedtime. Haley would have accused him of being drunk, quietly of course because she feared waking the baby. She would have cursed him as she sprinkled baking soda in a pathetic attempt to remove the stain.

Two glasses of wine over two hours? Barely even a buzz.

He buttoned his collar, tightened his tie, and slid on his suit coat as he made his way to the door. Gun. Credentials. Wallet. Keys. To hell with the umbrella because he _liked_ the rain.

It only took fifteen minutes to get to Spencer's apartment. Aaron debated on stopping at the Cantonese place along the way but realized how late it was. Spencer would have already gotten his order. And his can of Tsingtao beer.

Spencer wasn't the only one who could work the numbers.

He knocked.

Firmly.

Without fear.

 _One hippopotamus. Two hippopotami. Three hippopotami. Four hippopotami._

"Hotch?" The pitch was one of surprised confusion, with the unspoken, _Why are you here?_ hanging in the air.

Aaron had no offering except himself. He should have brought flowers. Chocolates. A Stephen Hawking novel. _Something._

Softly, he said, "One year. Six months. Three days. You don't like celebrating alone."

Christ, he hoped he wasn't wrong.

"Um. Oh." Spencer's face reddened as he cleared his throat a few times. "Uh. A minute, please?"

The door closed in his face.

Aaron had been on the receiving end of a bullet before. It was not as excruciating as this.

 _Idiot._

 _Moron.  
_  
To think _he_ was the only one Spencer entertained. All that experience had to come from somewhere, and the strategic placement of condoms and lube throughout the apartment hadn't escaped his notice.

Humiliation rooted Aaron to the spot. It overrode the coward that wished to run away. It also brought a haze that swirled in Aaron's mind.

The door opened again. Spencer ushered him in, hands fluttering from nerves. Non sequiturs fell steadily like the rain outside.

Aaron's instincts took over. Scan. Catalogue. Analyze. Find what the _fuck_ was out of place in the apartment, besides the motherfucking son of a bitch sitting on Spencer's couch and _eating_ —of all the goddamned things—Ma Yi Shang Shu covered with some electric orange goo that screamed "Mall Chinese" instead of gourmet.

Fucking heathen.

A heathen attempting to eat with chopsticks.

Aaron knew how to kill someone using chopsticks. Not the bullshit, Hollywood version, but the honest to God, "I worked a case where the UnSub killed his victims using chopsticks" kind of way.

Spencer was in _'I'm trying hard not to be spastic'_ mode. Chatting about Nikola Tesla, telegeodynamics, the Bremsstrahlung process ... and didn't Aaron—Christ! Did Spencer actually use his first name in front of this bastard?—want to take off his suit coat that was soaking wet or at least want a towel to dry off?

"I'm fine." Except that Aaron wanted to frog march the intruder to the curb and along the way, treat him to a personal profile that would leave scars for years.

Thirty-five to forty-year-old man. Male-pattern baldness with the typical comb-over in a pathetic attempt to mask it. Law enforcement, the shield clipped to his belt indicating he was a detective from Alexandria. Shoulder holster on the end table but not within reach to distance himself from his job. Obviously, barely holding on to his rank from the look of the badly scuffed shoes, faded dress shirt straining over a paunchy stomach and rumpled khakis; successful cops always dressed more respectably, gut or no gut.

This guy ... he had hoped that law enforcement would make him the man he thought he should be but failing. His father had been abusive, domineering—probably a beat cop—while his mother had been passive aggressive. Former junkie. Cocaine by the way he swiped his nose constantly. Probably picked up the habit on the narc beat as a way to escape his failing marriage and flagging career. Divorced but still not used to it by the way he absently rubbed where his wedding ring should be.

Trying to appear worldly by wielding chopsticks—probably because Spencer offered them—but was definitely a fork and knife man. He had to have connections somewhere because why else would that hard ass Alexandria unit chief put up with such a pathetic sack of shit? Was he like Cal McGee from Kansas City, a legacy cop who people only kept around out of respect for the father?

"Hungry?" It was that specific Spencer squeak of uncertainty. The fact it wasn't a full sentence meant something, but Aaron wasn't sure quite what.

"No."

"Tsingtao?" and the word tinged with that special panicked Spencer tone.

He stared at the mug by the intruder's plate. "Nespresso. Black."

"Uh. Yeah. Sure. I have ..."

"The arpeggio." More of a sentimental choice since it was the first kind that Spencer had ever served him and it just happened to be Spencer's preferred blend.

"Uh. Yes. Arpeggio. Okay." There was a painful pause. "Aaron. Ben. Ben. Aaron." Then, Spencer retreated to the kitchen. A few seconds later, cups crashed unexpectedly followed by a short dissertation on Kopi Luwak, the palm civet cat, and the world's most expensive coffee. Spencer then apologized that he didn't have any to share because it was $300 per pound and he'd spent his money on a first edition _Elements of Euclid by Euclid_ published by Charles Wittingham in 1847.

Aaron stood next the worn chair by the couch, right hand casually in his trouser pocket. Ben had stopped eating and was now eyeing him warily. It had dissolved into a staring contest, but it was the type that Aaron could easily win.

Spencer came back, handing him mug of coffee before bending as if to sit on the floor. "No," Aaron said as he touched the back of Spencer's upper arm. "Here." He gestured towards the chair.

Spencer stared at him, confusion in his eyes. He could tell Spencer wanted to ask questions, but held back. Aaron wondered if the intruder could read Spencer as well as he could.

"I'm not going to sit here and be judged by one of your FBI buddies, Spencer," Ben suddenly snarled as he got to his feet. His plate clattered on the coffee table. "Assholes like him think they're better than us."

"It's a common reaction by someone with low self-esteem," Aaron shot back coolly.

"Aaron!" Spencer grabbed his upper arm, squeezing hard, "Ben is a friend. It's _Thursday_."

He knew that was supposed to mean something, but he smelled blood in the water and was debating what kind of kill to make. Swift and precise or long and excruciating. He was currently leaning toward the latter.

He hated losing. Fighting for what he wanted. He could do that. Easily. This guy wasn't even a challenge.

 _"Thursday,"_ Spencer repeated but Aaron's rational thought had never made it past the front door. With an authoritative edge that he had never heard before, Spencer added, "I _don't_ want to ask you to leave, but I _will_ if you continue acting like this."

"Don't bother," Ben said as he picked up his holster and slid it on. "This was all a fucking mistake. Like a Fed could possibly fucking understand what the hell it's like to be a _real_ cop!" He put on his coat with jerking motions. "God help you if this bastard is part of your support because he clearly doesn't fucking get it."

"Ben ..."

"Good night, Spencer." With that, the other man stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

"Who is he?" Aaron demanded, tone deadly even.

"He's a friend." Spencer went to the door and locked it.

 _Not good enough!_ Aaron wanted to shout. Instead, he asked frostily, "How do you know him?"

"It's called 'Anonymous' for a reason, Aaron," Spencer fired back. He then picked up Ben's discarded plate and coffee cup and took them to the kitchen.

Aaron frowned but followed, setting his own mug on the counter.

"You're drinking that Arpeggio, and you're buying the refills." Spencer's angry parental tone should have made him laugh, but it barely registered. After dropping the plates in the sink, Spencer turned, arms firmly across his chest. "What the _hell_ is with you? You show up at my apartment after ten, soaking wet. Intimidate the hell out of friend of mine for no reason. You look one step away from completely losing it. I should know. I deal with insanity on a regular basis."

"You don't like celebrating alone."

"That's not an answer, Aaron. If you're going to be like this, then I think me being alone is a much better option than you staying here."

Aaron took a step closer, heart suddenly hammering in his chest as a flood of memories hit. Dave was wrong. Horribly wrong. Fighting for what he wanted? What the fuck had he been thinking? It was desperation that forced him to say the one thing guaranteed to not get him kicked out of Spencer's apartment: "I don't know how to do this."

Spencer's brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly as his eyes darted from Aaron to the couch to the door several times before his mouth dropped open. His tone was incredulous. "Wait ... What?!? Huh? You … Ah ... You think ... ?"

Aaron shut him up with a kiss. Hard. Possessive. Perhaps the most passionate he'd ever delivered. Hands pressed against his chest but didn't push him away. _One last hurrah,_ Aaron thought. It was early enough for a pub-crawl with Dave. The son of a bitch who gave him craptastic advice owed him that much at least. Drunk, it would also make it much easier for Morgan to put his head on a stick.

Something, he had a feeling, he fully deserved.He wasn't expecting Spencer to wrap himself around him, pushing the soaking material from his shoulders until Aaron dropped his hands and the jacket fell to the floor. That was encouragement, yes? And then something took over Aaron's body, because he began maneuvering them towards the couch. It took two tries to get that stupid sweater vest off of Spencer and Aaron flung it somewhere in the apartment. He went to work on Spencer's tie next.

He kicked the coffee table out of the way, books spilling on the floor as he pushed Spencer down onto the couch. He pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, waiting for the slight nod that Spencer gave before resuming. Lips. Jaw. Neck. Earlobes. Spencer's shirt was at his mercy as he popped buttons as he removed it. He trailed kisses down Spencer's chest, alternating with sharp bites that earned gasps.

He pulled at Spencer's belt buckle, undoing it along with the trouser button and zipper. He barely noticed that Spencer was plucking at his clothing but not having much success. When he yanked Spencer's trousers and boxers down, he forced the other man to break contact. It took a few moments and required Aaron pulling off Spencer's right shoe so that the clothing bunched around only one ankle. He pushed his own trousers and boxers to mid-thigh, gun and cell phone dull thuds on the hardwood floor.

Aaron mouthed the pale skin of Spencer's inner thighs, working his way from knee to crotch. When he took Spencer's semi-hard cock in his mouth, he went down until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat. The gag-reflex kicked in and he swallowed. Spencer gasped, clutched the back of his head, and bucked.

Aaron had been doing his own research, after all.

"Oh … Ah! Yes, Aaron," Spencer breathed, fingers digging into his skull.

He blindly reached behind him, knowing the drawer in the coffee table had all the things they needed. He found the lube and condom without too much effort, never once stopping his assault on Spencer's now rock hard cock.

His lashes were wet with exertion but he knew it was totally worth it. Aaron then pulled Spencer forward until his ass was half hanging off the couch and coated his fingers with lube. He stopped just long enough to say, "I want you, Spencer."

He was rewarded with, "Yes."

Yet instead of the slow teasing Aaron had always done in the past, he jabbed his index finger into Spencer, perhaps a bit too hard from the sound Spencer made. He didn't stop with his hands or his mouth. Spencer wasn't going to break. Spencer would tell him to stop if it was too much.

"Yes. Aaron. Ahh. Fuck."

Methodical. Ruthless even. One finger. Two fingers to crook and hit the prostate. Spencer writhed.

He used his right hand to roll the condom on. Awkward, but he wasn't really ambidextrous despite his mother's best efforts. Those who where left-handed were agents of the Devil.

Perhaps it was the Devil who possessed his soul now.

"Aaron!" Spencer's head was thrown back, exposing his throat.

"I want you." Growled. Fiercely. "I'm going to take you."

"Condom?"

"I'm not fucking stupid." Complete with a third finger to emphasis his point.

"Ahh! Aaron."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes."

He withdrew his fingers. He thrust up, cock pressing hard against Spencer without breaching. "Look at me."

Spencer opened his eyes, which were fully dilated, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath. He'd never looked so open, so wanton, _so damn sexy_.

Aaron wasn't sure what possessed him to say and do these things. There was a part of him cowering in a corner of his mind, telling him to stop. It made him pause, hold Spencer's gaze, and demand, "Do you want me?"

Spencer's left hand gripped Aaron's collarbone, thumb against his throat and blunt nails digging into his shoulder. "Yes," forcefully said between clenched teeth. "I want you to fuck me, Aaron."

Instinct took over. Tight. Hot. Trying to take it slow so to adjust but ... Awkward angles. Stress on his hips and thighs that Aaron had never experienced before.

Primal. He licked and bit Spencer's chest as the other man curled one hand around the back of his head. His own hands were digging to Spencer's hips as he tried to keep himself from pounding his lover into the furniture. Spencer's erection had flagged, though, and it made Aaron more edgy because this wasn't just about him.

He fumbled for the lube, dripping some haphazardly on Spencer's genitals because his coordination was suddenly shot to hell, but Spencer continued to hold the back of his head while his other hand clutched the cushions.

It was as if every nerve of his body was on fire as Aaron ordered, "Stroke yourself."

Slowly, Spencer let go of the couch and tentatively curled those long fingers around his dick. Unlike before, this time the affirmation was almost a whimper. "Yes."

He watched the way Spencer ran his hand along his shaft, as if unsure of what to do. Gone was the sexually confident Spencer who had once given him a hand job in the SUV because they where stuck in traffic and Spencer was in a daring mood. Instead, here was this shy man who seemed intimidated by touching himself.

That wasn't what or who Aaron desired. Sex with Spencer was adventuresome, the younger man pushing Aaron's boundaries with each encounter. There was one "experiment" that had been particularly successful.

Aaron increased his pace, earning a gasp from Spencer. He then met Spencer's eyes as he commanded, "Stroke yourself like you do when I'm fucking you from behind and you're watching yourself in the mirror."

Spencer's entire body shuddered as he gasped out, "Nrgh." He became bolder, working and squeezing and twisting.

"That's it. Faster."

"A-aaron." The name dragged out between sharp breaths.

"God, yes." He tightened his grip he continued to fuck Spencer. "You're _mine._ " And where the hell had _that_ come from? But Aaron didn't care. "Mine."

"Aaron." Spencer's hand increased the pace "Yes."

"No one else."

"Of course, Aaron."

"Mine." The rhythm was aching. Difficult to kept in sync. Lanky limbs sharp against his own. The tops of Aaron's thighs burned, as if he'd been bench-pressing an ungodly weight.

"Yes."

"Spence."

"So good."

Aaron couldn't reply. His quads threatened to give out. He stretched, maneuvering until Spencer's long legs were draped over his shoulders and he grabbed the back of the couch with both hands. He shifted until his glutes kicked in. The sound Spencer made was between surprise and pain.

"Spence."

It was meant as a question but he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh, earning a yelp that sounded sort of like a "yes." Aaron knew he should pause. Knew he should look Spencer in the eyes. Knew he should have some sort of permission for this brutality. But his gaze was on Spencer's cock, mesmerized by how he fisted it.

"Mine. You're _mine_." He growled the words, unsure of where they were coming from.

"Yes."

The pace was driving, faster than he'd ever dared before. His body was pulsing as he continued, everything focused on the hot tight heat, Spencer's lustful gasps, and his own grunts of exertion. He could feel his body wound tight, his mind caught up in the feel … the feel of it.

When the climax hit, he bit down on Spencer's shoulder, muffling his yell of release. Spencer hissed but his hand never slowed. Aaron's mind clouded even more, his dick still hard and balls aching and he didn't know why. His pace slowed, he leaned back just enough so that Spencer's legs fell on either side but Aaron was determined to keep going until Spencer hit his release. He wanted to have those muscles clench around him, just like the third time Spencer had ridden him.

"Come for me," he coaxed. "I want to feel you. I need to feel you."

Spencer's hand paused for just a second.

Aaron's tone immediately to a harsh bark. "Come for me."

Spencer shuddered as Aaron rolled the younger man's nipple between thumb and forefinger. Spencer's muscles twitched as he whispered, "Yes."

"That's it. Work your cock. Stroke it for me. You like this? You're mine, Spencer. You're going to come for me."

"Y-yyes." Stuttered. Breathless.

"I'm still hard for you. You feel it?" Aaron shifted slightly, earning a choked howl from Spencer that meant he was hitting that sweet spot. "I am going to fuck you until you can't walk."

"Aahhh."

"You do this to me."

"Aaron."

"You're close aren't you? You're going to come with my hard cock deep in your ass. You do this to me. You're _mine_."

Spencer's moans hit a crescendo before he convulsed twice as the orgasm hit. It was Aaron who bayed and arched as Spencer pulsed around him. It was Aaron who sunk his teeth into the sinewy muscle of Spencer's neck. Aaron finally slowed when his body refused to continue.

Someone breathed, "Yes, finally" but Aaron wasn't sure whom.

Aaron dropped down, heels against his own ass. Spencer followed, his weight pressing down.

"Finally." Breathed against his neck.

"Spencer." He lifted Spencer's cum-covered hand. He took each finger in his mouth, bathed each with his tongue until he suckled the palm and earned a shiver.

"Yes." Spencer was blinking rapidly, as if trying to process everything.

He kissed him again, long and deep, trying to taste every bit of Spencer. _His Spencer._ He then latched onto Spencer's neck, biting and swirling his tongue, feeling the still rapid pulse. "Spencer."

"Shhhh. Shhhh." Aaron was pushed back a little, but he threaded his hands in Spencer's hair and pressed into another kiss. It only lasted a few moments before Spencer turned his head slightly to break contact. His fingers brushed Aaron's lips—"Shhhh." He then curled his arms around Aaron's shoulders and rested his forehead against Aaron's.

"You're mine," Aaron breathed.

"I know."


	5. Ignite to Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial shooter targets divorced mothers who had sole custody of their only sons, little boys between the ages of three and six. The case hits too close to home for Hotch, and Reid takes it upon himself to offer comfort.

_**///***///** _

**_“Let it be neither mine nor thine; but divide it.”  
1 Kings 3: 26_ **

**_///***/// Ann Arbor, Michigan ///***///_ **

The briefing had been short.

A serial shooter was targeting divorced mothers who had sole custody of their only sons, little boys between the ages of three and six. The mother was shot in the genitals and then in the face. The son was shot execution style. Both bodies found in the family room, sitting up and facing each other.

Six mothers. Six sons. Six fathers left to bury their little boys and their ex-wives.

Victimology established that the UnSub was a white male between the ages of thirty and forty-five. Stable job that allowed him to observe and target his victims. Counselor, school teacher—bus driver even?—someone who interacted with both parent and child. He was separated or recently divorced, with the spouse winning sole or majority custody of the child after a lengthy and/or brutal court battle. The father had more than likely been declared absent or inadequate in some way with a tendency toward violence.

The UnSub was escalating; at the fifth and sixth crime scenes, bibles had been left, opened to the First Book of Kings, chapter three.

They had divided up: Hotch and Reid to the fifth crime scene where the first bible was found, Morgan and Prentiss to the sixth, and Rossi and JJ to speak with the victims’ families.

“The Judgment of Solomon,” Hotch said almost to himself as he circled the room, barely looking up from the gray carpet that had large brown splotches of dried blood. “Two women claiming to be the mother of the same baby. Solomon asked for a sword to divide the boy,” he continued. “The true mother gave up custody rather than allow her child to be harmed.” He glanced at the crucifix on the wall. “Why does this UnSub kill his only child… his only son?”

_He’s perverting God to justify murder._

The quote spilled off Reid’s lips: “'Let it be neither mine nor thine; but divide it’.”

Hotch stopped abruptly, hands at his sides. His lips then pulled to the side as he slowly took out his gun. He aimed at where the mother’s body had been found. “I shoot my ex-wife but don’t kill her. I force her to watch.” He lowered the gun, pivoting to where the boy had been. He raised it and mimicked taking a shot. “I force her to watch me kill our only son.”

Reid’s mouth went dry.

“She took my son away from me. Now, I take our son away from her,” Hotch said darkly as he had slid his gun back into the holster. It was rare for any of the team to use their weapons as props during a role play; it should have been unnerving, but Reid understood.

Sometimes, it just needed to be more tangible than others.

Sometimes, it was a test.

_Could this be me?_

Hotch turned again towards where the mother’s body had been. His tone was vacant, matching the hollowness in his eyes. “Then, I kill her. But… I don’t kill myself.”

Reid ignored the chills shooting down his spine at Hotch’s choice of pronouns. Instead, he speculated, “What if this has become a mission for him, to deliver the judgment to the women he sees as having wronged their ex-husbands?”

“Why didn’t he start with his own family?” Hotch asked.

“Maybe he did,” Reid countered. “A domestic disturbance call, perhaps? The UnSub confronts his ex-wife at her home and they argue. Their son is there. He threatens them both. The police are called. The stressor could have been the ex-wife obtaining a TRO.”

Hotch stared at the photos on the wall; none of them included the ex-husband. “Call Garcia.”

Reid’s conversation with Garcia was as somber as the crime scene; she didn’t even offer her usual comments to try to lighten the mood. The unspoken question was out there, like it always was when cases hit too close. Reid refused to acknowledge it.

_He would never be pushed that far. Would he?_

She came up with a name: Gavin Kurtz.

Reid relayed the information to Hotch, who was still standing in the middle of the room, gaze back on the carpet. Reid approached and touched him on the elbow, an echo of that time as they were about the board the jet after the Cyrus case.

“Don’t,” Hotch tersely warned—his automatic response, of course—and Spencer refrained from challenging. He looked out the bay window. “We don’t have much time.”

Of course, Hotch was right.

Seven hours later, they were facing down the UnSub—Gavin Kurtz—at the Kurtz’s three-bedroom ranch home. Kurtz had his soon-to-be ex-wife Brooke and their five year old son Jacob at gunpoint.

Somehow, Hotch had ended up in the finished basement with Gavin, Brooke and Jacob. By himself, because the detective who was supposed to be Hotch’s backup just _had_ to take the cell phone call outside but didn’t bother to inform Hotch that he was leaving. Isolated, because there was only one set of stairs to the basement and no windows… impossible for SWAT to set up a shot.

Just Hotch, a spiraling sociopath with a Sig Sauer, and two very terrified hostages.

Wasn’t _Reid_ supposed to be the one in these types of situations?

“I know you’re angry, Gavin,” Hotch’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. Clear. Calm. Typical Hotch, who had managed to keep the radio on despite the circumstances. They could hear Jacob’s whimpers that his mommy was hurt. “You feel like everything is falling apart. But this isn’t the answer. You know it isn’t.”

Reid tuned out the police chattering around him: Rossi’s dismissal of the SWAT commander’s suggestion to dump tear gas in the room—“the man in there talking to that unstable son of a bitch wrote the fucking _book_ on these types of negotiations!”—and JJ’s orders that the local media needed to be pushed back at least another 50 yards. He ignored Morgan cursing the detective who had allowed Hotch to get isolated and Prentiss wringing her hands in an uncharacteristic show of distress. He listened, knowing that he would need to remember exactly what Hotch said, exactly how he said it, when this was all over.

Reid— _Spencer_ —was going to have to pick up the pieces of Hotch— of _Aaron_ —even if the person in question didn’t quite know it yet.

It was the standard rhetoric. Hotch empathized with Kurtz. He knew Kurtz just wanted to spend time with his son, that he didn’t want to be an absent father like Kurtz’s own had been. But Kurtz was scaring his son and the worst thing in the world was to have a son afraid of his father.

“This is not what you want Jacob to remember when he thinks of you.” There was a long pause before Hotch said, “You’re in control of the situation, Gavin. I put my gun down like you asked.”

Reid blinked. Rossi growled, “Shit.”

“He carries a backup,” Reid sputtered in a lame attempt of reassurance, as if the rest of the team didn’t know. As if _he_ didn’t know. Reid had used that Glock 27 to officially pass his firearms qualification after the Dowd case; even though he carried a revolver now, he still had a certain disturbing fondness for that particular gun. “Doubtful Kurtz would check for that.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” Prentiss said.

“… Brooke needs medical attention, Gavin,” Hotch was saying.

Brooke. Where had Spencer heard that name before?

“You, Brooke and Jacob. We can all leave here.”

Brooke.

Brooks.

_When we were engaged, Haley kept waffling on her married name. If she wanted it to be hyphenated._

It had been one of those rare, non sequitur, one-sided conversations with Aaron after a rigorous round of sex. Confessions were always made at the oddest times.

_I told her I didn’t care. It was up to her. She didn’t have to take my name if she didn’t want to. I’m not that old fashioned. Haley Brooks Hotchner. She loved the sound of it. Did you know she used to make the ‘o' in Brooks with hearts?_

“I know you don’t want to hurt Jacob. He’s scared now. I know that’s not what you want. You want to show him that you’re a good father, Gavin. Just put the gun down. Put the gun down, take Jacob’s hand and go upstairs. I’m sure Jacob would like to play outside.”

Jacob.

Jacob.

Hebrew for “he who supplants” or “held by the heel.” The French form was Jacques. Derivatives of Jacques included Jack.

Jack.

_You have no idea how long it took us to decide on a name. Haley had at least six books. I wanted something simple. I don’t know how we came up with Jack; no one in either of our families is a ‘Jack.’ She suggested the name Gideon, once. I was putting together the crib when she said it and, at the time, I thought she was just being silly. I know better now. … She used to call him my wife._

Reid let out a breath.

He glanced over at the file on the car hood and the photo of Brooke Kurtz. Blonde. Blue eyes. Long hair. Slightly overweight. Not a perfect match to Haley (no, that would have been Kate Joyner and she was dead) but…

Close enough.

Hotch’s voice sounded tinny through the radio. “…I believe you are a good father, Gavin. You want what’s best for Jacob.”

There were those seconds of hopeful silence. The one which all negotiators knew would make or break the situation.

Then. Kurtz spoke. His words were unimportant but the inflection said all: _End Game_. Reid met Rossi’s gaze.

“Fucking hell.”

He wasn’t sure who said it. Him. Rossi. Morgan. Maybe Prentiss. Definitely not JJ.

It didn’t matter.

They rushed the house, guns drawn, just as two shots rang out.

Then, they were in the basement. Kurtz was dead in the corner with hole in his forehead eerily similar to Dowd’s.

Hotch had always been the best shot in the BAU.

In the middle of the room, Hotch cradled Jacob, pressing his hand against the child’s head while blood soaked his sleeve, shirt and tie. The Glock 27 was next to his thigh. Brooke whimpered against the couch, eyes wide as she shook with shock and the red pooled around her.

Hotch’s voice was authoritative, emotionless. _Never let them see you sweat._ “Get the paramedics down here now!”

///***///

The running joke in the BAU was that Hotch did not own casual clothes; he was the only one of the group who routinely wore a suit and tie, looking every ounce the pure FBI agent day in, day out. So Hotch on the jet, dressed in jeans and a gray fleece pullover, was definitely an unusual sight. If it had been any other time, any other case, the team would have teased him mercilessly. They would have used their cell phones to send photos to Garcia, who would probably create a collage to post next to Prentiss’s now infamous high school picture.

Here. Now. No one said a word. And they did a lousy job at trying to hide their concerned glances.

Hotch’s briefcase was next to his feet, untouched, and he stared out the window.

Jacob Kurtz had been declared dead on the scene.

Brooke Kurtz had been DOA at the hospital.

Seven sons.

Seven mothers.

_Are you keeping count now?_

Reid knew he shouldn’t. Knew that Hotch usually _pretended_ that he didn’t but, like them all, did anyway.

As badly as Reid wanted to sit next to him—team be damned—he knew he couldn’t. Hotch’s pride wouldn’t allow it. The other man would simply open his briefcase, pick up a pen, pull out a folder, and begin working. His automatic defense. His shield. And that would send out more messages about the state of Hotch, the state of Reid, and the state of Hotch and Reid than Spencer cared to think about.

They weren’t officially “out” but Reid knew better than to naively believe that the team _didn’t_ know. Hell, Morgan had stopped teasing about that “hot hunk you have stashed away somewhere” months ago.

Being hyperaware of each other’s tolerances did have benefits, though, especially as they gathered their things after the jet had landed. JJ, Prentiss, Morgan and Rossi bade good night—Hotch responding to each like he was supposed to, while Reid gave an awkward wave— before they deplaned, leaving Reid and Hotch alone except for the pilot, who had the cockpit door closed.

“It’s late. I’ll drive you home,” Spencer offered, echoing a conversation from so many months ago. The night when he had requested space and then everything had just gotten out of hand afterwards. Thank God they had progressed beyond that.

Hotch’s tone was sharp yet quiet, “You don’t think I’m capable of driving myself?”

_Role reversal._

Spencer countered, “You need the company.”

That earned a harsh glare. Hotch pressed his lips together, clearly wanting to lash out, but he looked away, sneering at the window instead. Control. That obsessive need for control and the absolute fear of losing his temper.

_My greatest fear being a father is not whether or not I know how to change a diaper or knowing when to take the training wheels off or having the right answers. My greatest fear? It is… it. It is… what is the trigger that would make me hurt my own son?_

Softly, bluntly, “You shouldn’t be alone, Aaron.”

“Stop.” Bitten off. Cold. _You crossed the line._

Spencer didn’t care. “Then let me take you home.”

///***///

The Hotchner home was almost completely packed up, brown moving boxes stacked in the main room, each labeled with Hotch’s neat printing. _Library: Law (reference and textbooks). Family Room: DVDs, CDs (all). Kitchen: casseroles, baking (Haley)._

Spencer wasn’t surprised that Aaron was moving, just that it took so long. Using the excuse that the housing market had tanked didn’t cut it, not when Aaron lived in the perfect residential area for young families, especially ones of federal agents newly assigned to Quantico.

They stood in the hallway, go bags still on their shoulders and Aaron with his briefcase. Spencer closed the door and stayed there, his lover standing still a few feet in front of him.

“I never asked before,” Aaron said suddenly. Distantly. His briefcase dropped to the floor as an afterthought. _Honey, I’m home._ The go bag was next.

Spencer set his own bag and satchel down against the wall. Curiously, “What didn’t you ask?”

“Your car.” Aaron didn’t turn to face him. “The Volvo.”

_How was your day?_

Spencer tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he said, "It’s a nineteen sixty-five Volvo Amazon 121.” He licked his lips. One time, Aaron had said that Spencer’s discourses were the only things that made everything else seem normal or as normal as things could be in the BAU. It had taken the sting out of being cut off so many times. “Actually, the Amazon was the first vehicle to feature three-point seatbelts and have them as a standard feature. When it was originally marketed, Amazon was spelled with an 's' but later changed to a 'z'."

"She has to be a classic." Still distant. Still soft. Wistful almost.

_My day? Oh. Same old, same old. I took down another monster._

"You're the first person to call it that," Spencer snorted. "Morgan calls it my Grandpa car.”

"Calls _her_ that," Aaron corrected absently. "Cars and ships are always 'her'." While Spencer knew that—he still couldn’t bring himself to assign a gender to an inanimate object—he remained silent.

_What’s for dinner?_

"But she's not,” Aaron continued. “Not a Grandpa car. She just needs some work." He took a few steps towards the stairs. “Garcia should know a good shop.”

“Actually…” Spencer rocked back on his heels before letting out a small laugh, “I kind of want to do the work myself. I know I don’t look like the typical grease monkey, but I have assembled a Pontiac 400 V-8 engine with 360 horsepower.” Aaron looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “My junior year at Cal Tech,” he added with a shrug. “Engineering project.”

It earned the barest of smiles from Aaron. “You never cease to amaze me, Spencer Reid.” He looked back up the stairs.

_I’m going to catch a quick shower before dinner. Do you mind?_

What had Rossi once said? _Aaron Hotchner has more pride than there are lions in Africa._ But here. Now. The man wasn’t going to ask for anything, but Spencer knew it wasn’t necessarily out of pride. When Spencer had initiated that first chaste kiss in this very hallway, Aaron had automatically (uncharacteristically) relinquished control to him. Something had conditioned the other man do so, and Spencer refused to believe his initial conclusions. It wasn’t impossible. It just didn’t… fit who Aaron Hotchner was.

Yet the night Aaron had rushed upstairs in a pure panic, leaving Spencer half naked on the floor with an aching hard on and so close to orgasm, Spencer could no longer deny the truth. A husband reporting spousal abuse was rare; Aaron was just another statistic. Psychological abuse was just as damaging, perhaps even more so, than the physical. Life in the BAU demanded compartmentalization in order to keep one’s sanity, but with the absence of the source that kept _that_ particular unpleasantness locked away, Aaron’s psyche had decided it was time to address it.

They never gave it a name. Spencer never suggested counseling although he knew he should. Aaron never volunteered anything except when a trigger set him off, and even that took dogged coaxing from Spencer to get it out.

The list Spencer had mentally compiled was… disheartening. Rules. Oh so many rules.

Spencer moved forward and touched Aaron’s elbow. Aaron let out a long sigh and then nodded slightly. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps he didn’t trust his voice. Spencer didn’t blame him.

Spencer got them upstairs, ignoring his own uneasiness at being in the master bedroom and bathroom, before carefully undressing his lover. It wasn’t a sexy, slow tease, but one more of (hopefully) comfort. Spencer made sure his touch was reassuring, smoothing his hands along Aaron. Grounding. He wasn’t bothered that Aaron didn’t return the gesture; he got out of his own clothes quickly and then shuffled them both into the bathroom.

Shower on. Water more lukewarm than blistering hot. Aaron stumbled in; Spencer didn’t follow. Showering together always sounded like a better idea than it actually was, especially in a space clearly designed for one. The other man washed quickly and, as he dried off, wandered back into the bedroom. Spencer took his turn, keeping it perfunctory. He came out with a towel wrapped around his waist to find Aaron sitting naked on the bed, feet on the floor and covers pulled back, and staring at the window sill.

Spencer recognized the expression and suppressed a shudder. This was different, though. This was _Aaron._

He didn’t say a word as he crawled into bed and behind him. Spencer settled his hands on Aaron’s shoulders and gently began stroking his bare skin. Tense. Brittle. Fighting for every ounce of control, because compartmentalizing had always worked in the past.

If Aaron’s mind hadn’t made the connections before, Spencer guessed they were making them now.

Brooke.

Jacob.

Haley.

Jack.

Gavin.

Aaron.

Spencer recalled the words said on the plane ride back from West Bune. “I know it’s tough when you identify with the bad guy.”

“Stop.” A hoarse plea this time.

“You’re not Gavin Kurtz.”

“We are not talking about this,” but without heat.

_I promised not to bring work home with me._

“We can talk about this,” Spencer replied with forceful gentleness.

_I’m not Haley._

There was a long silence before the barely audible, “I want to forget” permeated the air.

Spencer’s stomach clenched. His hands stilled. Images flashed in his head. The last time he tightened the belt around his arm and slid the needle into his vein. Jack Vaughan holding that shotgun, the word ‘tomorrow’ echoing in that high school bathroom. Spencer’s thumb poised over the call button on his personal cell phone, the number of his dealer on the screen. Standing in front of strangers and saying, “your literature” in a pathetic effort to distance himself from the group of addicts who he swore, up until that moment, he was nothing like. Looking back over his shoulder as he spoke to Owen Savage, making sure that he blocked the line of fire of the people he trusted unequivocally with his life. Hotch telling him “it’s none of my business” when, really, it was.

He pressed a kiss to Aaron’s shoulder. “You don’t get over it.” Spencer’s voice was rough. “You go through it. Not over, not under, not around. Through."

And, wow, with the sheer number of things locked permanently in Spencer’s mind, the best he could come up with was _that_?

Aaron reached up, sliding his hand gently against Spencer’s face, then tangling his fingers in Spencer’s damp hair. “I know.”

They kissed, but it was hesitant. Testing. Cautious. Neutral. Like the second time they were together and they both had been out of sorts, unsure of this relationship and just what everything meant.

Aaron let out a shaky breath, resting his forehead on Spencer’s chin. “I want to forget,” he repeated, voice still soft. “Just for tonight.”

Fair enough.

Spencer tipped Aaron’s chin up and began kissing him again, coaxing the other man to lean back and lay down on the bed. Spencer straddled his hips, running his hands up and down Aaron’s chest and arms, but never breaking contact with his lips and tongue as he focused on Aaron’s mouth.

_Ignite the body. Close the mind._

Spencer had done that plenty of times, both with and without chemical assistance.

Aaron responded slowly, tentatively. Hands skimming Spencer’s sides, down to his hips. Settling there, thumbs stroking his hip bones. Spencer nibbled along his jaw, down his throat, and then to that one little spot guaranteed to make Aaron gasp. He focused on specific spots. Neck. Earlobe. Collarbone. Tip of the shoulder.

A quick, hard fuck would only provide blankness for a while; Spencer had learned that lesson after the case in Chula Vista, with a random hookup (and fellow recovering addict) named Danny. Distraction by touch? That lasted longer. Much longer.

Spencer alternated between Aaron’s nipples, sucking on one while pinching and twisting the other. He worked his way down the torso, across toned abs. Aaron’s fingers gliding across his shoulder as “Spencer” spilled from his mouth.

Hipbone.

Rasp of the tongue. Gentle bite. Light rake of nails.

Top of the thigh.

Rasp of the tongue. Gentle bite. Light rake of nails.

Inner thigh.

Rasp of the tongue. Gentle bite. Light rake of nails.

“Please, Spencer.” The hand fell away.

Knee.

Calf.

Rasp of the tongue. Gentle bite. Light rake of nails.

Ankle.

“Christ.” Aaron fisted the sheets.

“Actually, according to you, I’m God,” Spencer corrected with an impish grin and a nip at the other ankle. Spencer slid to the end of the bed, taking one of Aaron’s feet in his hands and pressing his thumbs against the arch.

Aaron sucked in a breath and lifted his hands slightly, pulling on the sheets. Those movements alone conveyed that no one probably had ever given Aaron a foot massage. Another thing to add to Spencer’s “do to Aaron” list.

“Zoku Shin Do is what traditional East Asian foot reflexology is called, with the roots going back to China over five thousand years. The Egyptians also practiced a form of reflexology, with hieroglyphics found in a tomb in Saqqara.” Spencer moved to another spot. “There are different places on each foot. This area corresponds with the heart. Lungs here. Let’s see. Shoulder. Arm.” He paused. “Groin.”

Spencer moved to his other foot, spreading Aaron’s legs in the process. He didn’t spend much time on the reflexology before working his way back up, alternating between legs but keeping his pace slow.

Rasp of the tongue. Gentle bite. Light rake of nails.

Calves.

Knees.

The spot just above the patella.

Keeping his touch light not ticklish, firm yet rousing. When Spencer stroked Aaron’s inner thighs, the man gasped and spread his legs more. His cock was hard against his belly, precum smearing on his bare skin.

“Please...” desperately from Aaron, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheets.

Thumbs sliding just below Aaron’s balls, pressing against the perineum.

Letting go of the sheets, Aaron drew up his knees, raised his hips, and then stuffed a pillow under his lower back. He blindly pawed through the nightstand then dumped a few condom packets and a bottle of lubricant next to his hip.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. “Aaron…”

“Please.” The unspoken _I don’t know how to do this_ hanging in the air.

Spencer mouthed Aaron’s balls before reaching for the lube one-handed, flipping open the cap and slicking his fingers. Nerves hit next because while Spencer _wanted_ this—badly, oh so badly— _why_ the change now?

_I don’t know how to ask._

Spencer swiped his tongue up Aaron’s shaft as his forefinger circled Aaron’s entrance. Aaron shuddered but nodded, biting his lower lip as he gripped the sheets again.

Swipe of the tongue. Circle with the finger tip.

Swipe. Circle.

Swipe. Circle. Engulf. Breach.

“God, Spencer!”

It was all about association.

Spencer’s motions became like engine pistons. Suck down on Aaron’s cock, push up into his ass. Slide back to the tip of Aaron’s cock, pull back until his finger was just inside. He kept his pace agonizingly slow, allowing Aaron to get used to the sensations.

“Faster… please.” Breathless. Aaron still wasn’t used to voicing what he wanted during sex. It was only after they were well in the rhythm, when Aaron gave himself over to sensation, that he would make demands.

Spencer slid his finger out completely, earning a _whine_ (of all things) from Aaron. “Shhhh,” he said, tongue flicking the head of Aaron’s cock as he got more lube. He brushed Aaron’s asshole with two fingers. “Aaron?”

His lover canted his hips slightly and said, “Yes.”

Swipe of the tongue. Circle with the finger tips.

Swipe. Circle.

Swipe. Circle. Engulf. Breach.

Aaron choked out a moan as Spencer went back to the same pattern. Point. Counterpoint. Then, he crooked his fingers and found Aaron’s prostate.

“God, Spencer!” Yelled this time, which made Spencer grin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron’s hand curling in the air, clearly wanting to touch but not allowing himself. Spencer gently grabbed his wrist and pulled until Aaron’s fingers threaded through his hair.

Hesitant about that part. Always so hesitant. Even after Spencer specifically told him how much of a turn on it was when he did it.

Aaron stroked his hair before trailing his fingers along Spencer’s cheek and then down to his lips wrapped around his cock. Spencer hummed his appreciation.

Aaron shuddered. “Yes. Please.”

Spencer quickened his pace, sliding his hand along Aaron’s hip. A fine sweat had broken out across Aaron’s skin as his breathing grew more erratic and his muscles strained to hold still. Spencer wondered what it would take for Aaron to give in to the request to fuck his mouth, but not here. Not now. Not with two fingers stretching Aaron and Spencer ready to add a third.

When he did, Aaron’s entire body shook once and then stilled, breath caught in his lungs, fingers tightened almost painfully in Spencer’s hair while the other hand had a white-knuckle grip on the sheets.

Spencer pulled off of his lover’s cock, but didn’t remove his fingers, which he kept moving _ohsoslowly_. “Too much?” he asked, concerned.

“Don’t. Stop.” Brokenly, between harsh pants.

“Do you want me to stop?” Spencer asked. Clarification and permission.

“No.” Whispered. Strained. “I…” Aaron breathed hard for several seconds, fingers sliding from Spencer’s hair, and then said, “I want you.” He leaned up and for the first time since Spencer began this assault on his body, looked him straight in the eyes. No hesitation. No fear. Pupils dilated. Brow beaded with sweat. “Fuck me, Spencer.”

The words made him shiver, made his cock throb hard. Words he’d never thought he’d hear from Aaron. Still, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Aaron quirked a small grin. “I’ll let you know if something bothers me.”

And Spencer let out a laugh and licked the tip of Aaron’s cock. He then wrapped his other hand around Aaron and began to pump slowly, using his hand as a counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers. “Relax,” he coaxed. “Breathe.”

With those words, Aaron dropped back on the pillows, hands gripping the sheets again. His breathing was still erratic but he was making the effort.

“There you go,” Spencer said softly. “Just a little more.”

“Spencer…” His skin was slick with sweat, thighs trembling slightly. “Please.” As if fearful he would lose his nerve.

Spencer slid his fingers out—Aaron made an odd sound but didn’t move—and wiped them on his discarded towel. He then tore open the condom packet, rolled one on—damn, his hands were shaking; this wasn’t his first time but this was _Aaron_ —and then coated himself liberally with lube. He arranged Aaron’s legs as he settled between them, guiding his cock until it was just there.

With the huge issues that Aaron had about missionary style, Spencer was genuinely surprised that he’d allow it now. “Breathe,” he said as he pushed forward. “Breathe.”

“Oh God!”

Tight. Oh so tight and hot. Trembling flesh. It ate away at Spencer’s control because it had been far too long since he’d been on this side of it but he slowly pressed on. “I’ve got you,” Spencer said against Aaron’s lips. “Trust me.” He stroked Aaron’s cock, thumbing the head, as a distraction. “Relax.”

“Oh God… oh God…” and then the resistance melted away.

Spencer groaned as he slid until he was fully seated. “So good,” he murmured. “So sexy. You look so sexy… Aaron—” He wasn’t expecting the hand briefly over his mouth before fingers latched onto his hair.

A new trigger.

Spencer took the anger that flared up in him and stuffed it into a box in his mind. He kissed Aaron hard, lip-bruising and tongue-demanding. Aaron responded by threading both hands into Spencer’s hair to hold him in place. Spencer gave a shallow thrust and Aaron arched against him.

The pace was slow. Aching. As badly as Spencer wanted to drive into his lover’s body, he held back, waiting for Aaron to adjust as best he could, to signal he was ready. Aaron’s left hand then dropped to Spencer’s hip and pulled forward. Spencer increased his speed, angling his hips differently with each thrust until Aaron suddenly broke away from the kiss, a sound breaking from his throat that reminded Spencer of the time Aaron had fucked him senseless on his couch.

Spencer smiled. He gripped Aaron’s cock and, like before, tugged and twisted to match his rhythm. Aaron keened, thrashing slightly as he exposed his throat.

_That’s it. That’s it. Ignite the body, close the mind. Feel. Do not think._

With Aaron this keyed up, Spencer knew he wasn’t going to last long. He increased his pace, demanding Aaron to keep up with him as his strokes became tighter, more urgent. His lover’s body trembled, supplications pouring from his mouth. Aaron’s eyes were closed tightly, lashes wet and moisture trickling from the corners.

It had to hurt, but Aaron was urging him on, hand gripping his ass, insisting on the pace.

“Spencer… Oh God, Spencer.” A ragged whine.

So close. So close.

Aaron’s eyes suddenly snapped open. He focused completely on Spencer. Spencer didn’t dare look away. When his orgasm hit, Aaron’s eyes rolled back, his body shook hard, and thick white threads coated his belly. He bayed, just like that other night, and Spencer drove him through the climax, watching in fascination as his lover flew apart and gave in to the pure sensation.

“Aaron,” Spencer whispered as he captured slack lips for a kiss. His own orgasm right there on the edge. “Yes.” With two final pumps of his hips, Spencer came—a silent scream in his throat—and collapsed on Aaron.

_I want to forget. I want to feel._

They were a mass of panting, sweaty, sticky flesh. Spencer withdrew, earning a hiss from Aaron. He removed and knotted the condom, tossing it in the trashcan beside the bed. He grabbed the towel and wiped Aaron’s chest down, then his own, Aaron’s cock and then his. He pressed the cloth into Aaron’s hand, but his lover didn’t seem too interested in cleaning up. Spencer wasn’t about to wipe the man’s ass.

Aaron rolled to his side, settling Spencer next to him. Their breathing eventually slowed, Aaron wedging himself so that Spencer’s chin rested on his temple, one arm tucked under a pillow, and one hand resting lightly on Spencer’s hip. Unusual but given everything that had happened, not necessarily unexpected.

Suddenly, “I wasn’t fast enough,” Aaron whispered hoarsely, his voice catching as he clutched Spencer. “Wasn’t fast enough.”

_People tell me their secrets all the time. Think it’s ‘cause they know I don’t have anyone to betray them to._

“I know,” Spencer replied, because all the reassurances, absolutions and rationalizations in the world didn’t mean shit at this point. Aaron had tried. He did the best with what he had, but not every case had a happy ending. “I know.”

///***///

The times that they had shared a bed, Spencer had either curled around Aaron or Aaron spooned behind him. This morning? Spencer found himself on his back, Aaron holding onto him like a child clutching a stuffed animal in his sleep.

A talisman.

New. Odd. Not especially surprising.

Spencer’s eyes felt full of sand as he belatedly realized he had left his contacts in.

“Christ,” he muttered, carefully rubbing the corners of his eyes to remove the grit.

“You’re God, remember?” Aaron murmured sleepily as he snuggled closer.

The last thing Spencer expected was a joke. That combined with the intimacy made Spencer nearly panic, but he managed to calm himself—recitation of multiplication and periodic tables were good for that—and then gingerly stroke Aaron’s arm.

“Stay,” Aaron mumbled, leaning into the touch.

“Of course.” Spencer knew the importance of early morning reassurances. Still… “But I really need to take my contacts out.”

That earned a snort. “The Nespresso machine is already packed,” he yawned, “so no coffee. Get back here when you’re done.”

Spencer extracted himself from Aaron’s hold—the man wasn’t especially interested in letting go—and padded downstairs naked. He picked up both their go bags and made his way back to the bathroom. It only took a few minutes—contacts out, glasses on, quick washcloth scrub because who knew what kind of mood Aaron was in—before Spencer returned to the bedroom.

It still felt odd being there, in the one place in the house he had studiously avoided since starting this phase of his relationship with Aaron. Spencer sighed and crawled back into bed, depositing his glasses on the nightstand.

He wasn’t expecting to be pulled and tugged and arranged so that Aaron was spooned around him. His lover’s hard cock nestled against his ass, nose buried in Spencer’s hair, and one hand not-so-innocently straying down to stroke his dick.

Spencer had forgotten how affectionate Aaron could be in the morning, before the demons fully woke and the unit chief specter slipped into place. He stretched a little and then wiggled, earning a grunt from Aaron. Spencer laughed lightly, “We can do something about that.”

“Shhhh,” Aaron murmured although his hips canted up. “More sleep.”

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

An explosion of breath. Forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. “God.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I can move.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Spencer shot back lightly, hoping the concern didn’t bleed into his voice. He was almost certain that last night had been Aaron’s first time, and first times—hell, even fifth times—took a bit to recover from no matter how good said lover was.

“You never cease to amaze me, Spencer Reid.”

An echo of a conversation from last night. “I try my best.”

Aaron snorted but then began to move his hips, his cock sliding against Spencer’s ass. The “need you” was barely audible.

“Then take me,” was just as low. Spencer was surprised when Aaron moved away, rolling him on his back and then moving to be on top of him.

It was the first time since that fateful night when Aaron had a panic attack that he initiated the missionary style, Spencer on the bottom.

The only position Haley obviously had allowed.

_Bitch._

Aaron rocked against him, faced buried in Spencer’s hair as he moaned. It had to be half-awake sex because Spencer fully believed Aaron would have no part of this if he were fully coherent.

Regardless… “Yes,” Spencer breathed, because Aaron needed acknowledgement and permission.

His lover moaned and picked up the pace, short and intense thrusts. For a man who moments ago claimed he couldn’t move, he was certainly feisty. “Need you, Spence,” repeated with a low growl.

He wanted to echo, “Then take me,” but realized that this wasn’t a simple act of frottage. It was claiming in a different way, Spencer supposed, as if Aaron were trying to exorcise the bad memories from this room. Yet, flesh twisted awkwardly, painfully, and then Aaron changed how he was pressing into Spencer.

“Fuck,” Aaron grunted.

Spencer wanted to say “need lube” because there was no way he was getting off with the way his skin was being abused, but was too afraid to break the spell. Then Aaron reached for something and Spencer could hear him rummaging around the drawer. A few seconds later, there was the soft the click of a cap and then Aaron’s slick hand reaching between them, grasping their cocks, and—thankfully—lubrication to ease the friction just enough.

Then Aaron showered his shoulders, neck and jaw with kisses and nips, murmuring “Spence” as he did. He worked them with brisk strokes. No teasing. No slow build up. Just hard and fast and primal and Spencer knew neither of them was going to last too long.

“Yes,” Spencer moaned as he bared his throat more.

Teeth dug lightly into his collarbone, Aaron’s pace relentless.

“God, Spence. So good. So right. Love the feel of you.”

Spencer wondered if Aaron even knew what he was saying. He wanted to reply, “Work me. C’mon, stroke our cocks. Make us come,” because Aaron had definite kink for dirty talk.

In the right situation.

Instead, he let out an “aaah!”

“Fuck!” Aaron’s movements became sharp. Demanding. Like that night when he had claimed Spencer so thoroughly on the couch. Spencer would never admit to just how many times he had jacked off to those particular memories.

He could feel the rapid build of release, drawing his balls up and making his thighs almost tremble. “Close, Aaron. So close.”

Lips crashed down upon his. Hand tight around him. Words. Words muttered between movements and… no… Spencer did not just hear: “Love you, Spence.”

No.

No.

It didn’t stop him from climaxing, a cry ripping from his throat.

“Love you so much.”

Hot fluid shot across his stomach.

Spencer’s mind tried to shut down.

No.

No.

It was just sex talk. Just orgasmic ramblings that triggered the automatic response, “Love you, too,” because God knows, Spencer had never spoken those words aloud to anyone except his mother.

“Good.”

And Aaron moved away and a towel swept across Spencer’s stomach. Spencer did nothing but allow his body to be arranged, allow Aaron to curl around him.

_Love you, Spence._

They were just words.

Words.

Words from a man broken down last night and somewhat resurrected this morning.

They didn’t mean anything.

They couldn’t.

Spencer closed his eyes. They’d get up later, one of them going to Kripsy Kreme to get coffee and breakfast. It was a little known fact that Aaron could devour six obscenely sweet, raspberry jelly-filled doughnuts in less than ten minutes and not come crashing down from the sugar high later. They’d lounge around maybe, Spencer perhaps offering to help pack but would be politely turned down.

Spencer would take him back to the airstrip so Aaron could pick up his car.

And Spencer would drive back to his own apartment, alone, and wonder if Aaron really meant what he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been modified from the original version where I had mistakenly thought Haley's maiden name was Madison not Brooks.


	6. Þunresdæg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Adam/Amanda Jackson case in South Padre Island, Reid distances himself. It’s not until late on “movie night” that he contacts Hotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for S4's "Conflicted."

It was a pattern that Aaron supposed he should be quite used to by now. When the Job went badly for Spencer, the younger man closed himself off from everyone. Only after Spencer had sorted things out himself would he accept counsel, but it was only from specific people. Four years ago, it would have been Gideon. Nowadays, it was usually Morgan, sometimes Garcia, and on those odd occasions, JJ or Prentiss.

Aaron was rarely his confidante, even with the changes in their relationship, and he couldn't recall a single time that Spencer had gone to Dave. Then again, Aaron and Dave were "Mom and Dad" while the rest of the team was "the Kids." And there were some things one just didn't share with one's parents.

Gideon, Aaron supposed, had been the only one to transcend that particular rule.

The case in South Padre Island had worn heavily on all of them, but Spencer's frustrated, "I should have seen it. I've _dealt_ with someone with multiple personalities before!" had clued the rest of them in on just how hard Spencer was taking it. It didn't matter that they had solved the case, and that they—specifically Spencer—had prevented Amanda from killing the elder Jackson.

Spencer had spent the last three days with Amanda, searching for Adam—weird yes, but really, rarely were things in a profiler's life _normal_ —and Amanda (predictably, sadly) refused to allow Adam to resurface. Aaron could guess that Spencer felt he failed Adam, as much as he erroneously blamed himself for "failing" Nathan Harris, that kid from Chula Vista… and frustratingly and in a very twisted sense, Tobias Hankel.

What Aaron hated the most, though, was the irrational jealousy that surged in him whenever Spencer sought or accepted counsel from someone _other_ than him. He should be thrilled that Spencer had a confidante, just like Aaron had Dave. Morgan was Spencer's peer, best friends even though neither man actually probably termed it like that.

Morgan wasn't a mentor. Not a father figure. Not a boss.

Certainly not a lover.

Morgan wasn't a threat. Aaron _knew_ that. He _trusted_ Spencer. He _trusted_ Morgan. But there were times when the logical, rational part of Aaron was overwhelmed by his possessive nature. Times when he wanted to grab Morgan's wrist and tell him to back the hell off when the other man ruffled Spencer's hair or casually slung an arm around Spencer's shoulders. Spencer was Aaron's and his alone. Aaron knew that was one of his biggest flaws, that when he loved someone, he loved truly, madly and deeply. Ferociously.

Yet, Aaron did what he was supposed to do: stuff the socially unacceptable behaviors into the dark corners of his mind, locking them away so that they could do no harm. It took a lot of willpower, but it certainly beat the alternative.

Now, as they trudged across the tarmac after deplaning, Aaron listened as Morgan offered to drive Spencer home, an offer that Aaron knew better than to make tonight. The last thing he wanted was to be rejected in front of an audience who automatically digested and catalogued everything without hesitation.

Profiling.

There really wasn't a way to turn it off.

As they walked, Aaron scrolled through emails on his Blackberry, trying not to smile smugly as Spencer politely (predictably) turned Morgan down.

"Suit yourself," Morgan laughed.

Then, lightning danced across the sky quickly followed by a crack of thunder. There was a lull in the conversation and Aaron looked up just in time to see Spencer favor Morgan with that hopeful look. "Actually… um…"

And Aaron had to wonder if Spencer knew just how powerful that particular facial expression was. _Would you throw yourself on a grenade for me?_ Because they all would. Without hesitation. Because it was Spencer.

"No problem, kid," Morgan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, but still glanced at Aaron.

Christ. Was he being that obvious? No. Morgan was just being Morgan. It was the "I'll watch out for him" look. Still, Aaron jutted his chin slightly, as if giving permission that technically he shouldn't have to. Spencer was an adult. Aaron didn't own him, no matter how badly the dark part of him wanted to. He was, however, pleased that at least he was asked.

He headed towards his own car, alone, doling out nods and wishes of "good night" to his team. After all, it was Wednesday, and Aaron and Spencer always spent Thursday evenings together if they weren't working a case.

In the meantime, Aaron had to deal with his jealousy, had to resist the urge to suggest they all go out for drinks just so he could make _sure_ that all Morgan and Spencer did was talk.

But that wasn't him.

That wasn't him at all.

///***///

It was the usual day-after-a-case routine in the office. Paperwork. Returning phone calls. Filing. It was mid-afternoon and Aaron was about to get another cup of coffee when his phone buzzed. Flipping it open, he saw a message from Spencer:

MOVIE NITE

It was the code for Spencer's NA meetings. He wondered why Spencer felt it necessary to remind him, but then realized this could be Spencer telling him not come over afterward.

Aaron wasn't sure when he and Spencer had started text-messaging each other, opting to use their personal cell phones instead of their government-issued ones. Perhaps it had been after the third time they had been together and had realized that, well, what they had was more than two lonely men finding an outlet for their desires.

He typed: NEEDARIDE?

NO THX. L8R?

Aaron released the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Even if Spencer didn't want to talk, the younger man was always much more amorous after a difficult case. He could envision it now: Spencer kneeling before him, lips wrapped around his cock, and Aaron fighting the urge to fuck Spencer's mouth because while that was what he wanted to do, he didn't trust himself enough. Aaron cursed and adjusted his sudden hard on.

The trip to the BAU kitchen would have to wait.

He typed: @945?

And received back: KCUBYE

Aaron glanced at the clock. Only seven hours to go.

Another image of Spencer fluttered in his mind. Spencer riding him hard, growling in his ear about how good his cock felt and that he had been thinking about it all day, how he'd masturbated in the men's room during lunch to take the edge off, how he knew how much Aaron loved watching him, how he wanted to come all over Aaron's chest. Then, Spencer jerking off with the same intensity he was fucking Aaron with. Head thrown back. Hair wild. Mouth open. Panting heavily. Wanton. Sexy.

Christ, Aaron knew he had it bad.

Maybe Aaron would be the one retreating to the men's room to jack off, so he'd be able to whisper _that_ to Spencer tonight.

Maybe not.

That just wasn't him.

Really. It wasn't.

///***///

Aaron was in the shower. He had to do something to kill the time. He'd left the office at five-thirty because his concentration had been shot once Spencer had left early for the day. He had spent an hour at the gym trying to burn off the restlessness. The last thing Spencer probably wanted or needed was to be ravaged the moment Aaron walked in the man's apartment.

After all, Spencer was supposed to pounce _him,_ push _him_ up against the door and pull his clothes off. It wasn't the other way around.

Except for that one time.

On a Thursday.

Aaron rested his forehead on the cool, wet tiles. He really didn't want to think about that evening. Aaron had lost control. It had spooked him badly. He vowed never to let it happen again, even if Spencer claimed that it was one of the most fulfilling nights of his life.

Which was why Aaron was standing in the shower, fisting his cock hard and fast with his right hand. Clawing the tiles with his left. Breathing harshly through his nose. Focusing on that image of Spencer, on his knees, facing the mirror, pumping his own dick, while Aaron fucked him from behind.

He didn't want to think about why he was so stuck on that particular vision when getting off.

He strained to reach orgasm like he always did when he masturbated with his right hand. It wasn't awkward enough to trick his mind into thinking it was Spencer. His lover's hands were slender, elegant. Fingertips not roughened by gun calluses. But it was different enough to make it a challenge to get off. The climax was always more intense when he did.

When it finally hit, Aaron cried out and his knees buckled, the water starting to turn cold. He rinsed the soap from his body before turning off the faucet and reaching for a towel to dry. It hadn't been like this before, this anticipation, this outright need for someone. He refused to think about how unsatisfying his marriage must have been if this was how he reacted to good sex on a regular basis.

He quickly slipped his suit and tie back on, telling the nagging voice in his head to shut the hell up, the one that said the getup wasn't necessary and that he was truly fucked up for needing to be dressed a specific way when he had sex with Spencer—that he was pathetic because he needed someone to help him shed the persona of Hotch to become Aaron, and Spencer knew just how to do it.

When Aaron glanced at the display of his personal cell phone, he saw that he had a message waiting. It was just after nine o'clock. Maybe the meeting had let out early. Maybe. Doubtful. Spencer only texted when he was running late. He flipped open the phone and retrieved the message.

SRY. DBL FEATURE

Translated: Spencer decided to stay for something after the meeting. It had only happened a couple of times, the most recent after Spencer had returned from the Riley Jenkins mess in Vegas.

Aaron's anger immediately spiked but he quickly slapped it back down, berating himself for being so selfish. This was another part that Spencer didn't share with him. Aaron never pushed, just like Spencer never really pushed him about Haley unless something triggered a bad reaction. Spencer has his meetings. Aaron had his Spencer, although Aaron knew the latter wasn't exactly healthy.

Given the situation, how distant Spencer had been last night on the jet ride back and today in the office … well … he knew he shouldn't have been surprised that Spencer decided to spend extra time.

He texted back: OK. TIME?

WILL TXT U. BYE

Aaron sighed and slid the phone into his pocket. He wandered over to the couch and flipped on the TV.

He wondered how long he could wait.

///***///

It was eleven forty-seven when Aaron finally received an update from Spencer.

MEET ME?

The next message was a street address in Silver Spring, Maryland. It took a few moments for Aaron to realize just where it was and then a few more moments to try to convince himself he was overreacting. What the hell was Spencer doing in Silver Spring, which was over an hour from his apartment in Virginia? They never talked specifically about Spencer's NA meetings, but Aaron knew enough to know that it wasn't anywhere near Silver Spring. So, he did the next logical thing: he called.

And promptly got Spencer's voicemail. He then dialed the work cell number, but was treated to: "This is Doctor Spencer Reid of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit …" Aaron cursed as he shoved his wallet and credentials into his pockets, followed by securing the Glock 27 in his ankle holster and the Glock 17 on his belt.

Another message flashed on Aaron's personal phone. IM OK. RLY. RU ON UR WAY?

Times like this, Aaron really fucking _hated_ text messages. Obviously, Spencer didn't want to talk. But what if an UnSub had abducted Spencer and then used the messages to lure Aaron into a trap? They had seen that MO before, eight months ago in a suburb of Sacramento. It had taken Aaron and JJ forty minutes to convince the police chief that naming the UnSub the "IM Killer" was not a good idea.

He pounded in: YES. WHATS GNG ON?

COFFEE.

Great. Coffee. It would be after one in the morning by the time he got there. Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose.

Another message came through: RELAX. IMOK. PLZ?

Aaron took several deep breaths. He knew Spencer had a sponsor, but again, it was something they never really discussed. "It's called 'anonymous' for a reason, Aaron," was Spencer's stiff answer to any inquiries. One of the worse arguments they ever had was over Spencer's deliberately cryptic NA support system versus Aaron's 'I need to know … what if you were in an accident? I want you to trust me.'

How they had survived _that_ particular argument was still a mystery. Spencer's concession had been showing Aaron which speed-dial number was his sponsor; Aaron had vowed never to call unless it was an emergency, never to research the number to find out who it was, and never to bring up the subject again.

The make-up sex had been spectacular.

So, theoretically, Spencer's sponsor could be someone who lived in the area. That someone had invited Spencer over for coffee. It was late; Spencer didn't want the hassle of public transportation and was probably pretty frayed from the meeting, so he'd done the next logical thing: call Aaron.

Christ.

Aaron typed: B THERE 1HR.

Spencer sent back: KBYE

Aaron sighed as he locked his apartment and headed down to his car. He pulled put on the Kevlar vest from the trunk once he remembered that where he was meeting Spencer was in one of the rougher parts of the city. He refrained from putting it on until he had a better assessment of the situation. It didn't stop him from slipping off his suit coat so he could get the vest on easier once he got there. It didn't stop him from making sure it was in the front seat of his car, within easy reach.

It never hurt to be prepared.

 

///***///

Aaron was ten minutes away from the address Spencer had given him when another message flashed on his phone: #212

He blinked. Spencer had booked a hotel room? Anxiety swept through him despite the sex-crazed part of Aaron's mind chiming in with, _It's probably one of Spencer's fantasies to have sex in a motel room._ It was an unspoken rule between them: no sex while on the Job. Period.

Still, Aaron's go bag was in the trunk, but he couldn't remember if he actually had condoms and lube; even though sex wasn't part of the equation while working a case, it never hurt to be prepared. Then again, if it was Spencer's intention for them to fuck in a hotel room, then the younger man would definitely have supplies.

So, he sent back OK and resisted the urge to add RUOK because he was going to be there in a few minutes.

One look at the hotel as he drove up, however, sent another wave of dull panic through him. It wasn't the seediest place Aaron had ever been to, but it was in a less than desirable part of town and probably had bulletproof glass separating the front desk from the lobby. He briefly wondered how bad it would look if he entered the place with his suit coat over the FBI-emblazoned Kevlar.

 _Get a grip,_ he chastised himself as he found a parking spot and shoved the vest in the backseat, hoping it wasn't the stupidest thing he'd ever done. He sent IM HERE to Spencer but didn't wait for a response. Aaron slid on his suit jacket, leaving it unbuttoned so he could have easy access to his gun if needed. Credentials at the ready, of course.

Access to the second floor was via stairs on the outside, so it at least eliminated having to deal with the front desk. Aaron quickly made his way up, ignoring the sour urine and cigarette stink. This was _definitely_ not a place he'd ever imagine Spencer booking.

Instincts took over as Aaron approached Room 212, palm resting on the grip of his gun. He knocked on the door and called out, "Reid?" He glanced around, not too surprised to see a prostitute and her john getting out of a car. He waited and knocked again. "Reid? It's Hotch."

Aaron could then hear the thunk of the deadbolt and the rattle of the door handle. The door opened, but Spencer barely looked at him as he turned and ambled back into the room. Aaron followed, closing and bolting the door behind him. The room was the basic interstate-side motel: white walls, king size bed covered with a hideous flower-print spread, and a small seating area with a table and two chairs.

Spencer dropped into the chair facing the door, but didn't meet Aaron's gaze. Instead, he focused on his hands, which he had neatly folded on top of the worn Formica tabletop. If the time in the evening and the motel didn't make Aaron worried enough, Spencer's attire lit his nerves on fire: well-worn, acid-washed blue jeans with a white, threadbare spot on the thigh, and a maroon t-shirt under a faded long-sleeved, zip-front gray hoodie.

Just as Aaron had clothing to represent different aspects of his personality, Spencer apparently had them as well. It was a combination Aaron had never seen before. An ensemble that fit in better with this neighborhood than Spencer's usual couture.

On the table was a 750mL bottle of vodka—Grey Goose, a surprising choice given the locale—that was one-third empty. For a person with a high tolerance for alcohol, it was a decent hit. For a lightweight drinker like Spencer, it was a lot.

A 32 ounce Styrofoam cup with condensation dripping down the sides and a small plastic drinking cup were next to the frosted glass bottle. The smaller cup held an inch of liquid and three mostly melted ice cubes.

Spencer's leather belt was snaked across the table, booze and cups on one side while Spencer's two cell phones were on the other. The phones—one flipped open—were closest to him.

Bile tickled at the back of Aaron's throat as fear washed through him. He cautiously approached and then brushed his knuckles against Spencer's cheek.

Spencer glanced up and offered that, 'I fucked up again' grimace before gesturing toward the other chair. "Hey."

"I thought you were getting coffee," Aaron ventured quietly, trying his best not to go into supervisor/parent mode.

"I lied." Blunt, but not slurred. Eyes slightly wetter than usual, but pupils not dilated. Spencer went back to staring at his hands.

"Did the meeting not go well?" he asked, ignoring the unspoken rule that he was supposed to refer to it as a movie. Not here. Not now. Not with everything so … like this.

"I didn't go."

Chills shot down Aaron's spine as he pulled the chair closer to Spencer but found himself unable to sit down just yet. "You've been here all night?"

"Maybe."

Then, it hit.

 _The belt._

The whispered confession made at four a.m. that Saturday after returning from the case where Spencer had accused his father of murder.

 _Oh God._

Aaron sat heavily in the chair.

"I didn't," came the flat reply. Spencer met his gaze briefly. "I thought about it. But I didn't." He paused again. "Please, spare me the 'I'm proud of you' or 'I'm glad you called' or 'you did the right thing' speech." There was a long pause and then Spencer blew out a breath. "I shouldn't be telling you this, not when you're all … " he gestured towards the suit, "not when you're all Hotch-like."

The "uniform", as Haley once called it, was really the only thing keeping Aaron together. "I want you to tell me this," he said low and urgent. How many times had Spencer said that to him since they had started this aspect of their relationship? "I _want_ to understand."

"Then lose the tie." It was almost like an order but there was bitterness in the words. "And the jacket." Spencer looked up. "I don't want to talk to Hotch."

Fair enough. The tie joined Spencer's belt on the table. The coat was slung across the back of the chair. Aaron unbuttoned the shirt collar then his sleeves, rolling the latter up to mid-forearm. "Better?"

"Not really." Spencer gave a half-shrug. Then, his lip pulled into a small but sour grin. "Naked and on your knees would be better..." And it took a hefty amount of willpower for Aaron not to groan at the suggestion, despite the alarming circumstances, "but I won't subject you to the dubious cleanliness of the carpet."

Aaron huffed out a laugh. "Thank you."

The lapse of silence was anything but comfortable.

Spencer focused on his hands again. "This isn't the first time I've been to this hotel."

The starkness of the comment stung. While Aaron knew some of the details about Spencer's addiction, his lover was deliberately vague, except for a few passing references to the weekend Spencer had spent in a short-term rehab facility to detox. They never talked about the days that had elapsed between Spencer's rescue in Georgia and the day he decided to stop using; Spencer flatly refused.

There was a fine line between boss and lover.

Aaron asked quietly, "How often?" because maybe that line would be blurred tonight.

"Often enough." Spencer tilted his head slightly. "Did you know that, in the past eighteen months, there has been an average of four point two thefts from vehicles per week within a point three mile radius of this hotel?"

"Have you been here in the past eighteen months?"

The sour smile was back again. "No."

"Why now?"

"Not sure."

"Want to try that lie again?"

That earned a harsh laugh from Spencer. "Three guesses and the first two don't count."

"You can't let this cas—"

"I _don't_ want to talk to Hotch," Spencer snarled, his eyes bright with anger. "If this is how you're going to be, then just _go_."

The dismissal hurt, of course, just as Spencer had intended, but they both knew Aaron sure as hell wasn't going to leave. Aaron got up and walked over to the bathroom, finding another plastic cup. He rinsed it out, and then walked back to the table. He shook out four ice cubes into the cup and then poured three fingers worth of alcohol. He swirled the ice in the cup before taking a sip, surprised at the smooth taste; vodka had never been his beverage of choice.

He took another drink before asking, "Is the vodka part of the ritual?"

"No, it _wasn't_ ," the verb tense emphasized just a bit too strongly. "One vice at a time and all that."

"Why now?"

Spencer's eyebrows furrowed briefly. Then quietly, "I'm not sure why. It just seemed … appropriate."

"I thought you preferred brandy."

Spencer waved dismissively, his expression shifting back to sadness. "This isn't exactly the setting for brandy."

Aaron glanced around. The carpeting was stained in interesting Rorschach patterns but then he realized that one of the smallest spots was _moving_. He swung his gaze to the nightstand and watched as a cockroach casually made its way up the side of the clock-radio.

He suppressed a shudder. God, he hated roaches. It also sickened him to think that Spencer, who wasn't too keen on bugs to begin with, had stayed here by choice.

While high.

Probably so fucking high on drugs that he didn't notice. And just where the hell was Aaron during Spencer's "struggles"? So wrapped up in his own disasters that he failed to do something. Sure, it was easy to blame Gideon, to say he had just been following sage advice on how to handle the situation. _Hands off,_ Gideon had said. _He needs to figure this out on his own._ But in retrospect, Aaron knew it had been, perhaps, the worse possible decision he could have ever made.

It prompted Aaron to offer, "Let's go back—"

"What?" Spencer interrupted as his lips curled to a sneer. "You're not comfortable here?"

"No."

Spencer suddenly leaned forward, meeting his gaze with a fiery one of his own. "This is who I _am_ , Aaron."

He didn't flinch. He could read a dozen different messages in that single statement, colored by the location, the symbols and the timing. Lashing out. Aaron could certainly understand that, certainly _expect_ it. Part of him wanted it. It didn't stop him from saying, "No, this _isn't_ who you are." And yes, there was just a bit of anger because this self-pitying crap was definitely not Spencer Reid. "It maybe was who you were for a while, but it is _not_ who you are now."

"Bullshit." Spencer's eyes narrowed. "I'm always just one step away."

"We're all just one step away," Aaron countered.

A few beats of silence passed before Spencer glanced away. He threw himself back against the chair and sprawled out. Bitterly, "I shouldn't have called you." Spencer focused his gaze on the table lamp. "Shouldn't have called you at all."

Aaron blinked, surprised at how much the words hurt. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, uncharacteristic for him because, well, he was Aaron Hotchner. He wasn't used to being rejected.

Then.

It clicked.

Actually, it should have clicked a few weeks ago when Spencer began distancing himself—oh-so-subtly—after the case in Ann Arbor. The case in which Aaron had fallen apart afterwards, Spencer had put him back together and...

Those three little words.

Spencer's abandonment issues.

Shit.

Aaron stood, picked up his cup and downed the liquor in one gulp. "We're leaving," he announced and grabbed his tie, deftly rolling it up so it wouldn't get wrinkled. He slid on his suit jacket and then stuffed the tie in his pocket. "Now."

Spencer made an indignant noise, followed by the warning, "Hotch—" as he got to his feet.

" _Aaron_ ," he corrected sharply and closed the distance between them. Spencer had somehow managed to gain a few inches, but Aaron had always been able to loom over people, height disadvantage or not. "I'm here as your friend. As your _lover_." He stressed the word as he leaned forward. "Not as some drunken hookup. Not as some casual fuck-buddy. As your lover." The last three words were punctuated by three pokes to Spencer's chest. He paused, keeping his gaze firmly on the other man. "Put your belt on. Get your phones. Pick up your messenger bag. We are leaving now and we are going home."

The key to winning any argument, Aaron had learned long ago, was knowing when to stop. He'd issued his order and then spun towards the nightstand, spotting the television remote. The hotel was cheap and rundown, but the yellow "menu" button meant that it was probable that they could check out using the on-screen controls. He strode over to the nightstand, picked up the remote, and turned on the television.

From his peripheral vision, he realized that Spencer hadn't moved. He didn't spare a glance. His tone turned authoritative. " _Now_ , Spencer."

He focused completely on the task of scrolling through the on-screen menu, selecting "hotel services", "folio" and then "Guest Check Out." He nearly dropped the remote when he saw the name listed—they would definitely talk about that later—but pushed at the keys until "Check Out" was highlighted, pressed the "Enter" key and the confirmed that he did want to check out.

Only after he had finished did he toss the remote on the bed. Spencer had gathered his things (thankfully) but was now eyeing him warily.

"Let's go," Aaron said and pointed towards the door.

Spencer wordlessly complied.

Thank God.

///***///

The drive to Aaron's apartment was spent in uncomfortable silence. Spencer hadn't said a word since Aaron had harshly corrected him .

He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He was so used to arguments—one-sided screaming matches, usually, with Haley berating his choice of professions and his loyalty to his team—that this situation was... unnerving. He drove aggressively, focused completely on the road without a glance to Spencer's slumped yet defensive posture in the passenger's seat.

No comment about the Kevlar vest clearly visible in the back seat.

No comment that they were heading back to Aaron's apartment, not to Spencer's.

Just silence.

And, perhaps, that was the most unnerving of all.

Aaron was supposed to be calming down, the quietness soothing his raw nerves, but his mind spun through little scenarios of that disgusting motel room and his Spencer. Shooting up. Alone. Because the brightest minds in the FBI had stupidly believed that a socially-awkward genius with abandonment issues who had been tortured for two days somehow, someway could handle a drug addiction by himself.

He pulled into the garage, stopping the car a bit too harshly as he pulled it into his assigned space. He turned off the engine and only then spared a glance at Spencer.

Who was still eyeing him warily.

"You're staying the night with me," Aaron told him and then got out of the car.

He opened up the back door, picked up the vest, and then hit the remote for his trunk. He closed both car doors, tossed the vest in the trunk and then picked up his go bag. He did his best not to slam the trunk closed but the noise echoed in the enclosed garage anyway.

Spencer had gotten out of the car when Aaron had shut the trunk, his expression now laced with muted curiosity. He closed the door but remained silent, adjusting his messenger bag on his shoulder. He followed Aaron to the elevator.

Like the drive here, the elevator ride and walk down the hallway to Aaron's apartment was in silence. He wondered if it was because it was after two in the morning. Aaron keyed the door open, motioned Spencer inside, and once they were both in, he closed and locked the door. He dropped his go bag by the credenza along with his keys. However, he fished through the small change bowl and pulled out a small white envelope.

He had been meaning to give it to Spencer after Ann Arbor, proof perhaps that he meant those three little words, but it had been case after case after case...

 _No,_ he admonished himself. _You were too fucking chicken to give it to him. Too terrified to trust._

Spencer wasn't the only one with abandonment issues.

"Look at me, Spencer," Aaron ordered. Spencer wordlessly complied and, for the second time that evening, Aaron crowded into the man's personal space. "You are never to go to that place again. Do you understand?"

Spencer's eyebrow hitched a little as his gaze narrowed. His voice was quiet yet firm. Far from timid. "You don't own me, Hotch."

Emotional distance.

"Here and now, I'm not your boss."

"Then stop acting like it."

"Right now? I'm being the adult, bailing a petulant child out of trouble," he fired back, satisfied that Spencer blinked and seemed to shrink back a little. "I'm your friend. I _am_ your lover. And that means that if you have the sudden urge to do something completely asinine like go to the Silver Springs Travelodge and contemplate your past drug use? To list the pros and cons of getting high?" He grabbed one of Spencer's wrists from his side, turning until Spencer's hand was palm up. Aaron then shook the envelope until the silver key dropped into Spencer's hand. "You come here. You tell me to get the hell out because you need some time alone in a place that isn't at your apartment."

"Why should I do that?" Spencer asked coolly, defiantly. Yet, his fingers curled around the key.

"Because I love you. And you said you loved me." His gaze didn't falter. "And those words mean that we take care of each other. The good. The bad. And the ugly."

"And the illegal?"

"Hopefully not." Aaron released his hold on Spencer's wrist and stepped back. "But if it happens, we'll deal with it."

Spencer focused his gaze on the hand that held the key. His voice was soft, "Okay."

"Good." Aaron pulled off his suit coat for the second time that evening, draping it over his arm. "It's late. We're going to bed." He didn't wait for an answer, just brushed past the younger man and began walking to his bedroom.

"Aaron?"

He stopped and turned.

Spencer was still looking at his hand, but finally he met Aaron's eyes. There was a luminosity there that Aaron hadn't seen before. The younger man offered up the barest of smiles. "I love you, too."


	7. The Exceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron's romantic side emerges, which initially confuses Spencer. It takes Spencer a while to embrace this hidden facet of Aaron's personality.  
> (Late Season 4, the final scene three days before “To Hell… and Back”.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains profanity, adult content, explicit sexual situations

***///***

 _ **“For Mercy has a human heart,  
Pity, a human face,  
And Love, the human form divine,  
And Peace, the human dress…” **— ”The Divine Image” by William Blake_

 *****///*** Martinsburg, West Virginia ***///*****

Among the things that Reid had considered before making the first romantic overture toward Hotch had been the scenarios in which they would break the unspoken rule about sex when on the Job. Most of them fell under the category of Proof of Life, which included, but was not limited to:

  

  1. One of the team surviving a near-fatal altercation with an UnSub, such as a standoff sans Kevlar vest, high-speed car chase ending in a wreck (intentional or unintentional), poisoning, abduction, torture, etc. 
  

  2. One of the team surviving a near-fatal situation such as a bombing, fire, poisonous gas cloud, collapsing building, etc.
  

  3. One of them surviving 1 or 2
  

  4. One of the team dying
  

  5. An UnSub abducting/torturing/murdering a family member of the team or someone who resembled a family member
  



Because for Hotch to be anything but professional while on the job was simply, well, unthinkable.

So when Spencer found himself (gently) pushed up against the wall of his hotel room, jaw cradled by one of Aaron’s hands while the other rested on his waist, and kissed in the passionate and reverent way Aaron had, he wondered just _what_ had happened to provoke this change in behavior.

Even now, Aaron rarely initiated things.

The serial arson case they were working on in Martinsburg, West Virginia, was pretty basic. Small fires, small locations, no injuries. However, the lead detective working the case had recognized a pattern—increased frequency with a shorter cooling off period—and convinced the police chief to call in the BAU.

“I attended one of Agent Gideon’s lectures on arsonists a few years back,” Detective Dohmen told the Team when they had arrived. Name-dropping wasn’t all that uncommon, especially with Rossi being on the team, but it had been three years, one month and seventeen days since an LEO had invoked Gideon’s name. Dohmen had then continued, “I want to get this guy before he graduates to something bigger.”

The rest of the day had been typical. Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi and Hotch had gone to the various crime scenes; JJ had dealt with the press and Spencer had worked the geographical profile. Dinner at the local diner had been somewhat light-hearted, as if the team sensed that this was going to be one of their easier cases.

As for Aaron showing up at his door after everyone had gone back to their rooms? Not necessarily unusual since Aaron could be just as much a night owl as Spencer. Some of their biggest breaks had come from late night conversations over questionable hotel decaf.

But for Aaron to walk in, close the door, carelessly drop a file on the floor, and then kiss him?

Surely the mention of Gideon hadn’t prompted _this_ reaction. Had Aaron decided that Spencer needed physical reassurance that everything was going to be okay? Spencer turned his head; Aaron decided to focus on his jaw. Anger welled up because, “If this is about Gideon, I swear…”

Aaron stepped back, cheeks flushed. “What?”

Spencer met the other man’s gaze. He was about to grind out his explanation when Aaron narrowed his eyes and huffed out a laugh. Spencer’s temper flared, and he looked away.

“Hey.” Aaron’s knuckles brushed against his cheek. “This has absolutely nothing to do with Gideon.” There was a long pause and Spencer knew that the other man wouldn’t continue until Reid met his gaze again. Reluctantly, he did and was surprised at the earnestness he found. “I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. It wasn’t my intention.”

“What was I supposed to think?” he asked defensively.

“That I have horrible timing and that I didn’t even take into consideration what the detective had said this afternoon because…” Aaron stepped back. “I … ah … ” He cleared his throat. The stain on his cheeks was not from arousal. It momentarily stunned Spencer to realize that Aaron was _embarrassed_ about something. “Oh hell. Three-hundred sixty three days, twenty-three hours and—” he glanced at his watch, “fourteen minutes ago, you kissed me for the first time.”

Spencer’s mouth dropped open. He knew he made a sound—probably a humiliating squeak of some sort—but Aaron simply planted another kiss on him.

They broke away, Spencer still speechless.

Aaron quirked a grin, his confidence clearly back. “I love you, Spencer Reid.”

“I … ah … love you, too,” he said and winced as his voice rose in pitch, making it sound like a question rather than a statement of fact.

“Good.” Aaron kissed him on the lips, then, ridiculously, on the tip of his nose. Spencer could only gape at him. “I’d like to celebrate properly when we get back.”

“Ah … okay.”

“Excellent.” His lover’s smile was wide, his eyes sparkling. He picked up the folder from the floor and ran his knuckles lightly along Spencer’s jaw. “Good night, Spence.”

“Ah. Yeah.”

Aaron winked and then left, leaving Spencer standing in the meager hallway of his hotel room with his mouth hanging open.

The only thought that ran through Spencer’s mind was: _He remembered._

 *****///*** Minot, North Dakota ***///*****

For someone whose life depended on recognizing patterns, Spencer found himself remarkably obtuse nowadays when it came to his relationship with Aaron. It was frustrating as hell.

Aaron’s romantic overtures were not sappy or typical or overt. They were subtle and sophisticated much like his humor. Aaron tried his best to translate things to Spencer’s terms.

A journal article here.

A Chinese finger puzzle there.

A customized Rubik’s cube that took seven minutes, twelve seconds for Spencer to figure out the pattern and, in turn, precisely one minute, thirty-eight seconds to jerk off in the men’s room after he had solved it. No one had ever put that much effort into something that _intellectual_ for him.

Little things.

Stupid things.

Things that were so out of the realm of Spencer’s relationship experience that they often left him panicking. Doubting his worth. Terrified that Aaron would come to his senses and, well, leave.

Wondering what the significance of this damn day was because Aaron was passionately kissing him in the men’s room of a family restaurant. None of the “Proof of Life” rules were in effect and wheels up was tomorrow morning, so it _had_ to be an anniversary of some sort.

For the life of him, Spencer couldn’t figure out what it was.

It was embarrassing.

Down right humiliating for a man with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, and the one who had initiated this whole thing in the first place.

Aaron suddenly stopped. He pulled back, eyes downcast as if he’d just committed some sin, and he murmured, “Sorry.”

Spencer felt like a complete jackass. “I. Ah. No. I just don’t … _Why?_ ” Spencer asked, hating that his voice pitched upward.

“Just because,” Aaron shrugged and looked away, cheeks flushed. Just like that, Aaron’s insecurities—the ones that Spencer had worked so hard to help eradicate—were back in full force. “It won’t happen again.”

“No!” Spencer grabbed the lapels of Aaron’s jacket. “I … I’m just not … you’re the first … Gah!” Frustrated, he kissed Aaron hard on the lips. As much as he hated when Aaron got like this—self-doubt and shame for expressing himself—Spencer felt privileged to _see_ this side of his lover.

Aaron broke away. “I’m overwhelming you.”

“It’s not that. It’s flattering as hell.” He blew out a hard breath. “But … I don’t understand. Why now? The first time I gave you a blowjob was …”

Aaron pressed a finger to Spencer’s lips as he offered the barest of smiles. “Just because.”

“Just because,” he repeated as he moved his head slightly so he could speak. He knew he sounded like a moron, but really, it made no logical sense.

“Yes.”

“You’re making no sense at all.”

The other man’s eyes sparkled. He placed a small kiss to the side of Spencer’s mouth as he ran a thumb along Spencer’s jaw. “Sometimes, it’s that simple.”

And just like that, the insecurity Aaron had displayed was replaced by the cool confidence that he was known for. Aaron patted Spencer’s shoulder, straightened his purple scarf, and strolled out of the restroom as if nothing had happened.

“That simple,” Spencer echoed as he stared at the closing door.

 *****///*** Bowling Green, Ohio ***///*****

The hotel offered complimentary breakfast, including made-to-order waffles. Spencer was admittedly surprised that he was the first of the team downstairs. Sure, they had been out late last night because the local LEOs insisted on celebrating the close of the case with them. However, none of them had overindulged since they knew that hangovers and pressurized cabins did not go well together.

He poured a bit more maple syrup on his waffles, debating the pros and cons of actually owning a waffle maker and then wondering where it should reside: his place or Aaron’s. He eventually decided that it should be at Aaron’s, so that Jack could have waffles, too. Maybe the breakfast treat could help ease the Reid Effect with the little boy.

Spencer’s thoughts then drifted back to last night. It was rare that he attracted more attention from the ladies at a bar than Morgan. Despite Spencer’s best efforts, the women had dogged him through most of the evening. He had been more than a little miffed that Aaron had sat at a table with the police chief, eating popcorn and watching the proceedings with large grins on their faces.

However, forty minutes after they arrived at the hotel, Aaron showed up at his door. Spencer wanted to be pissed that he had been part of the night’s amusement, but it was difficult when Aaron apologized, declared his love, and then kissed him with a possessiveness that took Spencer’s breath away.

As for the rest of the evening? Well, Aaron left no doubt that he considered Spencer “his”. _I want you to think about us all day tomorrow,_ Aaron growled in his ear and proceeded to, well, fuck Spencer’s brains out. It had almost been as good as the time on Spencer’s couch. Spencer was a little sore, but nothing that was going to be terribly uncomfortable on the jet back to Quantico.

So caught up in his musings that the sudden sound of Rossi’s gruff, “Do me a damn favor next time, will you?” made him jump.

Spencer looked up as the other man sat in the chair across from him, plate clattering against the wooden table. It was loaded with scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, two toasted English muffins, three packets of orange marmalade, one low-fat peach yogurt, and a whole banana. It was Rossi’s “dinner last night tasted like crap” breakfast.

“Favor?” Spencer asked.

“Discretion doesn’t mean shit if you’re practicing Morse code at two in the morning,” Rossi replied tersely as he doused his eggs with Tabasco sauce.

“What? Morse code?” Spencer stared at him mystified. Rossi stabbed at his eggs but didn’t offer any further explanation.

Suddenly, he heard Morgan sputtering out a cough, and he glanced over to see the man holding a cup in one hand, coffee dripping down the cup’s sides. Morgan had that look on his face that translated to ‘I can’t believe you just said that’ as he stared at Rossi. Spencer glanced between the two men, Rossi refusing to look up and Morgan just _standing_ there.

Frustrated, he cut into the waffle with a bit more force than necessary, the metal scraping against the ceramic plate. “I wasn’t practicing Morse code at two in the morning,” Spencer retorted, knowing he probably sounded petulant and angry, but he really hated it when the Team dropped pop culture references around him and refused to explain. “Why the hell would I do that?”

There was a long, painful silence. Spencer continued to cut up his waffles, but didn’t take a bite.

Then Morgan chuckled, “Move the bed away from the wall, kid.”

“What?” He looked over and was momentarily stunned by Rossi’s glare. “I don’t …” Morgan was now snickering and then … Spencer understood.

 _Oh._

 _God._

“I … I …” he began to stutter and Rossi held up his hand. Spencer immediately shut up and knew he was blushing hotly.

“Just shut up and eat your damn breakfast,” Rossi grumbled. When Morgan continued to snicker, he lanced Morgan with an equally harsh glare. “And you should take your own damn advice, Cassanova. Jesus Christ. Like a goddamn war.”

Morgan grinned broadly. “Come on, now, Rossi. Is that jealousy I hear? Or was it that you couldn’t decide which one to entertain yourself with?”

Rossi bared his teeth a little before glancing over his shoulder. “Hey, Prentiss! Did you hear about Morgan’s night?”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Who _didn’t_?” She then grinned wickedly. “Then again, it was over pretty quick. Like, what? Two minutes?”

“Hey!” Morgan protested as he sat down next to Spencer and slung an arm around his shoulders. “You know? I’m gonna take the high road on that one like Pretty Boy does. You know, ‘gentleman never tells’ and all of that.”

“Derek Morgan. Gentleman,” Prentiss said as if in deep thought and then shook her head. “Nope. Don’t see it.”

“Ouch. You wound me, Princess.” He flicked a sugar packet at her.

“Well, _someone_ has to tame that ego of yours,” she replied as she deflected the projectile and sat next to Rossi. “Not like there’s room on the jet for it.”

“Indeed,” Rossi said.

And when Spencer recounted the scene to Aaron as they were driving home, Aaron had to pull the car over to the side of the road because he was laughing so hard.

“You never cease to amaze me, Spencer Reid,” Aaron said and then leaned over to kiss him.

Right there.

In public.

“There are traffic cameras,” Spencer said against Aaron’s lips.

“I don’t care.”

 *****///*** Spencer Reid’s Apartment ***///*****

A cool breeze fanned across Spencer’s chest rousing him from the last vestiges of a pleasant sleep. He cracked open an eye and blearily glanced over. Aaron was on his side, eyes sparkling mischievously, as his fingertips trailed lightly across Spencer’s bare skin. He realized his pajama top had been unbuttoned and pushed open. Lately, Aaron had developed a thing for undressing him.

“Good morning,” Aaron said softly.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbled and closed his eyes again. They were on stand-down for the next five days and Aaron politely requested to stay with him last night. It had been charming. It had been flattering.

It had been one hell of a way to start the weekend.

Aaron nuzzled his ear. “I want to keep you in bed all morning.”

His breath hitched, because, while Aaron had been decidedly more assertive lately (finally), he had never made such declarations before. Spencer murmured, “No arguments here.”

“Good,” Aaron breathed and then placed a kiss on Spencer’s now bare shoulder.

Lips caressed his shoulder with an occasional flick of the tongue. It was more exploratory than rousing, as if Aaron were mapping his skin. Fingertips rough with gun calluses (sexier than they had any right to be, really) slid across his ribcage, circling his nipples before delivering a light pinch to each one.

“Love this,” Spencer confessed, because his lover still sought some kind of permission. He felt, rather than saw, the smile against his skin.

“I know,” was the response.

Fingers toyed with the elastic of his pajama bottoms and Spencer shimmied out of them quickly. He was rock hard in anticipation and gasped as Aaron pressed against him, warm and simply _Aaron_.

When soft fabric suddenly wrapped around his cock, Spencer inhaled sharply. Aaron knew his kinks as well as Spencer knew Aaron’s. A handjob with silk was definitely one of them, but they hadn’t done anything until, well, now. But the shape of the fabric was odd, more like a strip of cloth than something like boxers or a kerchief. It was also textured, not smooth.

“Oh, God. You’re using your tie,” Spencer blurted out as his cock throbbed hard. That was easily one of his top fantasies. He remembered admitting to it, embarrassed as all hell, six weeks ago, after Aaron had confessed a certain affection for Spencer’s purple scarf.

“Two for one,” Aaron murmured, smugness clear in his tone, and nipped his ear.

The fabric slinked around and cradled Spencer’s balls. His whole body shivered and his dick began to ache. Pre-come dripped on his belly, another one of Aaron’s admitted kinks. If his lover was going to play _that_ kind of game, Spencer declared, “I could come right now.”

That earned a hard squeeze to the base of his cock. “Not yet.”

“You’re going to tease me using the tie, making me beg until I can only get out monosyllabic words? Bring me to the edge before stopping, then fucking me hard and having me come while you’re buried balls deep in me?” Spencer couldn’t help but ask, knowing exactly how his lover would react; there was a swallowed groan and Spencer smirked. He kept his eyes closed to add to the thrill.

“Not yet.”

 _That_ was interesting. Spencer hummed a little before grinning. The tie snaked around his skin, and he clutched the sheets. If Aaron was willing to indulge him like this, then his purple scarf was definitely going to make an appearance this weekend. He wondered if he could blindfold Aaron with it, or maybe even tie his wrists to the bedposts. Neither were triggers for his lover that Spencer knew of, and (thankfully) navigating that path of landmines had become a bit easier.

But still … it was a _tie_.

“Which … which one is it?” Spencer stuttered because, damn, he knew he’d never be able to look at Aaron’s ties the same way again. He could envision it now: roundtable meeting at the BAU, Aaron striding in wearing said neckwear, and Spencer coming in his pants without any external stimulation. He’d have to dump hot coffee on his crotch to cover the mess and would spend the rest of the day paranoid that everyone else in the room _knew_.

“One I bought specifically for you.”

The silk drug across the tip of Spencer’s cock, no doubt soaking up the pre-come. He let out a groan. It was then wrapped around the base of his cock and slid under his balls again, gently pulling them together as the end of the tie flopped against Spencer’s hip.

Then Aaron added nonchalantly, “The pattern is Fibonacci spirals.”

Spencer’s eyes flew open. He propped himself up on his elbows and was unable to resist looking down. The body of the fabric was dark plum with silver-gray threads as the pattern. It was certainly a tie that Aaron would never wear but one that could easily be in Spencer’s collection.

“You found a tie with Fibonacci spirals,” Spencer said, awed. He was mesmerized by the way Aaron used it to caress him.

“The internet is an amazing place.”

There was erotic, and then there was _intellectual_ and erotic.

He grabbed Aaron’s wrist and pushed until Aaron was flat on his back, and straddled him. He pinned one of Aaron’s arms over his head while holding the other against Aaron’s side. Sure Aaron could break the hold at any time, but (as usual) he allowed Spencer control. Spencer then kissed him thoroughly, not caring that the tie had now tangled around both their cocks.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he breathed against Aaron’s lips. Aaron laughed and pushed against Spencer, but didn’t put much force behind it. It was as if he were testing boundaries.

“You bought highball glasses for the bourbon you keep here for me.”

Spencer stared at him before shaking his head. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“Actually, it is.” Aaron’s grin went back to predatory, easily breaking Spencer’s grip, and, of all the damn things, began tickling him. Spencer yelped but retaliated with a few well-placed tickles of his own. There was this one spot on the eighth intercostal space that, when flicked just right, caused Aaron to make the most unmanly sound—a high-pitched yipe that would have their colleagues stunned.

It was game-on after that.

Spencer wasn’t sure how long they went after each other with aggressive playfulness as well as caution … they _were_ naked and there were sheets and a tie involved. He’d never before wrestled in bed and given what he knew about Aaron’s history, it was doubtful that Aaron had either. They were gasping and laughing, an amazing joyous feeling that Spencer never had before.

He found himself facedown on the mattress, Aaron’s entire body pressing against his back, hard cock nestled firmly against his ass. They were both panting heavily, a fine sheen of sweat coating them when Aaron placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the nape of Spencer’s neck.

“I want you,” Aaron told him.

Spencer wriggled his ass. “Take me.”

Aaron ran his mouth across his shoulders, licking and placing light bites as he went. “I want … I want to try something.”

Spencer looked over his shoulder and found Aaron’s dark eyes watching him carefully. He didn’t have to say, _I’ll let you know if something bothers me_. He simply had to nod. Trust was a wondrous thing.

Aaron’s smile was back again, and he resumed his kisses, shifting to where he was no longer pressing completely down on Spencer, but straddling his thighs. Strong hands caressed his shoulders and along his spine, followed by more kisses, licks, and nips. It wasn’t all that unusual. They had given each other massages before. There had also been a few times when Aaron had gotten off by thrusting his cock between Spencer’s thighs or between his ass cheeks.

It didn’t stop Spencer from voicing encouragement. Aaron worked his way down Spencer’s spine, fingers stroking his sides, his ass. It was this point—Aaron’s tongue at the base of Spencer’s back and the beginning of his ass crack—where Aaron would stop. This time, Aaron wordlessly prodded Spencer to his knees and loosely wrapped the tie—and how he managed to keep track of it was nothing short of amazing—around Spencer’s cock.

Then Aaron spread his ass cheeks, his thumbs brushing across Spencer’s hole. Spencer shuddered because his lover was quite skilled at fingering him. He almost reached for the lube before realizing that he was facing the bottom of the bed. That’s when he felt Aaron’s tongue. **_There._** Doing things that he never thought Aaron would ever, well, be interested in trying out.

Spencer wasn’t sure what kind of sound he made because it stuck in his throat when Aaron _licked_. He managed to get out an “oh yes, please,” clutching the sheets because of the intensity. While he had performed analingus on Aaron several times, there had never been an expectation to reciprocate. There hadn’t even been a discussion about it, just one of those unspoken things between them. Spencer recognized the pattern easily, the one he tended to use on Aaron.

In the throes of passion, his lover paid attention.

“You’re gonna tease me until I beg to come, aren’t you?”

That earned a hum followed by another thorough lick.

“You know … I could retaliate … ah! Please … yes. Yes. Not fair … I could … Oh, God! You’re fucking me with your tongue.” Spencer fisted the sheets and pressed his head to the mattress. He shivered as Aaron continued with an enthusiasm and … dedication was the wrong word but _damn_ that was what it was.

As a matter of fact, that was precisely who his lover was. A dedicated, do-it-right-or-don’t-do-it-at-all kind of man, generous and loving. Passionate as hell.

“I’m gonna come …” Spencer moaned and was rewarded with another hard squeeze to the base of his cock.

For the love of the deities that Spencer pointedly didn’t believe in, he swore he heard a wicked tone in Aaron’s voice. “Not yet.”

“You’re gonna make me beg?” he asked breathlessly and decided to remind Aaron just who he was dealing with. “You do know I am a … _Oh, God!_ ” because the combination of Aaron’s tongue thrusting and the tie around his dick temporarily short-circuited his speech.

Aaron chuckled. “Yes, you are a god.”

“Not fair.”

“You want me to stop?”

“Only if you’ll fuck me.”

“Not yet.”

“That’s _so_ not fair.”

“Not fair would be me stopping, right?” Aaron taunted. Spencer gasped as Aaron’s thumb began rubbing his entrance with firm, yet rousing strokes. Aaron’s voice was low, teasing. “You know? I can probably make you come right now without even touching your cock.”

“Eidetic memory. I’ll get you back when you least expect it.”

That earned a playful bite on his ass. “I dare you.”

“Oh, you are so going to pay for this.”

“I’m counting on it,” Aaron replied with lusty confidence and resumed tongue-fucking him.

He shuddered and found himself moaning, “Please, yes please” as his grip tightened on the sheets.

Aaron delivered a few light bites to his ass cheeks before licking and kissing his way up Spencer’s spine. He pushed Spencer’s legs apart a bit more and began rubbing against Spencer’s hole. It was slick and, for a moment, Spencer wondered where the hell Aaron had hidden the lube. Maybe the man had cleverly concealed it in the sheets since, clearly, he had this entire scenario mapped out. It made Spencer moan again and Aaron’s finger pushed into him further.

“Fuck!” he cried out.

Aaron kissed his shoulder blades and added a second finger, pulling Spencer until he was almost sitting up. “I love watching you,” Aaron murmured in his ear, “seeing this side of you.”

“Fuck me, please,” Spencer groaned. When he felt the third finger press against him, he shook his head. “Now. Please. Please fuck me now.”

“I don’t want to—”

Spencer opened his eyes. He looked directly into the mirror he knew instinctively Aaron had moved so that he could watch. He met Aaron’s gaze. “I’m ready, Aaron. Fuck me. Hard. Make me scream your name when I come as you’re pounding deep into me. Take me. _Now._ ”

Aaron’s eyes glinted with the possessiveness that Spencer coveted. He slid his fingers out and moved closer, his bare cock brushing against Spencer’s hole. Negotiating condomless sex had been a challenge, especially when Aaron had gone into attorney-mode to argue the cons. Spencer eventually won, although there were quite a few caveats in place, stipulations that were more commonsense given the nature of their jobs than anything else.

Still, up until this moment, Aaron had always asked if it was okay. Spencer felt like it was a small victory that they’d gotten over that hurdle as well.

Aaron’s hands moved to where one rested against Spencer’s chest, fingers tugging hard on Spencer’s nipple, while the other guided his cock. Spencer felt the tip against him and pushed back. Then, Aaron’s other hand grabbed Spencer’s hip and pulled him back, _hard,_ until Aaron was fully inside him.

Spencer gasped, “Yes.”

Aaron began thrusting slowly, changing angles until he hit that sweet spot and Spencer shook with arousal. His hand then slid along Spencer’s hip, grasping the soft silk of the tie, and began stroking.

“Look at us,” Aaron commanded softly with the sexy, authoritative tone he only used in the bedroom and Spencer obeyed. He was expecting to see something kind of silly: skinny white guy with a crazy tie wrapped around his cock while his lover watched from behind. But it wasn’t silly.

It was sexy.

It was, perhaps, the most erotic sight Spencer had ever seen.

“Look at _us_ ,” Aaron repeated. At first, Spencer didn’t get it. Then he looked again.

His breath caught.

It was like the first time he fully accepted that Aaron loved him. That it wasn’t something uttered during an orgasm. This whole thing now? Aaron didn’t see them as “individuals,” but as an “us.”

“I love _us_ ,” Aaron continued, breath warm against Spencer’s ear. “You know that right? I love us and I _want_ us.” From a man who held his emotional cards tightly to his chest, it was a declaration of profound magnitude. One said during an intimate act that was impossible to argue … the only option was to simply accept.

And, for once in his life, the terror Spencer associated with something on this level ceased to exist.

“I know,” Spencer whispered, closing his eyes and leaning back to rest his head on Aaron’s shoulder, exposing his throat and presenting himself as physically vulnerable as he felt emotionally. He curled a hand around Aaron’s neck. “I want us, too.”

“Good.”

The pace continued slowly, building the fire along Spencer’s nerves. Aaron began nuzzling his neck and thrusting faster, driving in to Spencer as he continued to work Spencer’s cock teasingly with the silk, and alternating between nipples with the pinching and rubbing. Spencer’s breath sped up, his body shaking from the sensual overload.

It was almost … too much. Spencer couldn’t focus, which he supposed was the point of it all, but it was also overwhelming. His skin suddenly became hypersensitive and he cried out, slamming a palm down on Aaron’s thigh, stuttering out, “Too much! Too much …”

Immediately, Aaron stopped. “Spence …”

“Shh …” he managed to get out as he kept rocking against Aaron’s cock. He pushed Aaron’s hands until they were both wrapped around his dick, and he tossed the tie away. With his own hand settled on top of Aaron’s, he squeezed until the pressure was tight, not teasing. “Fuck me,” he panted. “Fuck me and jerk me off hard.”

“Spence …”

“Do it.”

There was the slightest pause and Aaron began to counter his thrusts. It was slow, no where near the intensity of before. Usually, Spencer would opt for verbal encouragement, but he knew that was likely to spook Aaron even more.

He opened his eyes.

He looked directly into the mirror.

He caught Aaron’s gaze, the uncertainty and insecurity blazing in his eyes.

Spencer’s words were low, hungry. “It was sensory overload. No one has ever done that to me or for me before. It was erotic. It was incredible. I just wasn’t gonna be able to come. I want _us_ , Aaron. Please.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed since it was obvious what Spencer was trying to do—reassure him—and placed a gentle kiss on Spencer’s nape as if to say, _I never want to hurt you_.

“I know,” Spencer breathed. “Please. Please don’t stop.” Then…

Aaron began moving in earnest. Slow at first, those tentative thrusts and changing of positions until Spencer made the appropriate sound. Once that happened, one hand wound in Spencer’s hair (a first) while the other continued to work his cock. Spencer tried his best to give nonverbal cues that it was good, but when Aaron hit that sweet spot, combined with tugging just right on his cock, he cried out, “Oh, fuck me! Yes!” Apparently, that was all the permission Aaron needed and his pace increased.

Spencer gripped Aaron’s thighs to keep his balance, tilting his head back. Spencer knew that Aaron would go to his grave before admitting how much that simple gesture meant, but it always sparked the most intense result. Aaron began pounding in to him, teeth briefly sinking into Spencer’s shoulder.

“I want to watch you come,” Aaron growled.

“Yes,” Spencer breathed as his body thrummed closer to the edge. “Close. So close.”

“Come for me,” he ordered.

That was all that it took.

Spencer’s orgasm hit and he closed his eyes. He called out his lover’s name as his back arched, and his body shook from the intensity. Aaron pounded him through it wordlessly, but Spencer knew that he was watching.

“So good,” Aaron panted. “So good.” His hand released Spencer’s now flaccid, yet sensitive cock, moving to grip his shoulder almost as tightly as the hand in Spencer’s hair. His face was pressed hard against Spencer’s, his breathing harsh and erratic.

Spencer slowly opened his eyes. Aaron’s were shut tightly, lips pressed together. His lover was on the edge of orgasm, straining … pushing to reach for it. It had only happened a few times; Aaron worked up so much that he couldn’t get off. It frustrated the hell out of him and inevitably led to a sharp argument. The last thing that Spencer wanted was for this to happen now … not after such a successful experiment.

Suddenly, “I need to see you.” Quietly.

Aaron abruptly stopped and looked at him. “Of course.”

It took only moments for them to reposition, Spencer finding himself at the top of the bed, head cushioned by pillows. Aaron shifted so that Spencer’s legs were up and on his shoulders. One of Aaron’s hands latched onto the headboard, the other tangled in Spencer’s hair.

“Please,” Spencer whispered.

Aaron pushed back in. His forehead rested on Spencer’s collarbone and he revealed in a hushed tone, “I love watching,” as he slowly began fucking him again.

“I know.”

“Do you like this?”

“Yes. Please. Don’t stop. I want to feel you.”

“Wanna come so bad,” Aaron grunted as he sped his thrusts.

Spencer slid his hands down to Aaron’s ass and pulled forward. “C’mon,” he urged.

“I … I …”

“Come for us, Aaron,” Spencer looked directly into Aaron’s eyes.

“Fuck … Fuck …” He jabbed his hips hard, biting on his lower lip, as a sound rumbled up in his throat and his chest flushed darker. He let go of Spencer’s hair and now gripped both hands on the headboard, using it for leverage as he drove deeper …

“Come for _us_.”

“Oh, God … Oh, God!” Aaron’s body jerked hard. His mouth opened. He choked out Spencer’s name.

“That’s it. That’s it. Let go.”

“I’m … I’m …” He went still. He held his breath.

Spencer could feel the finer tremors that washed over Aaron as his lover climaxed and collapsed bonelessly on top of him. Spencer reached up and ran his hands through Aaron’s sweat-soaked locks. Gently. Slowly. Taking in how hard Aaron’s heart was hammering, how he panted down from the orgasmic high as he clutched Spencer tightly. The whispered words of love mixed with his name and the two-letter pronoun that now defined them.

Aaron slowly slid out, planting small kisses on Spencer’s shoulder as he did. He reached over the side of the bed and dropped a washcloth onto Spencer’s groin.

Spencer couldn’t help but chuckle, “There is a French term used to describe ejaculation, _la petite mort_.”

“Petite?” Aaron echoed quietly in mock disbelief. “If that was petite …”

“It was anything but petite,” he shot back with a laugh. “Thank you.”

And just like Aaron had wanted, they stayed in bed all morning.

Spencer relished every moment of it and he was convinced Aaron did the same.

He didn’t know that in three days, everything would change.

In three days, they would be called to Detroit. They would meet William Hightower on a tireless quest to find his sister. They would end up in Sarnia, Ontario, and make a gruesome discovery that would leave them all questioning why they did what they did. Spencer and Aaron wordlessly would agree to go home separately the night they got back to Quantico because there were still some things that they preferred to deal with on their own, and they understood that. And …

Foyet would attack, and he would murder the man that Spencer was with that morning. Not Aaron Hotchner—the father of Jack, or Hotch—the federal agent. No. The man who had been Spencer's playful lover, who trusted Spencer unequivocally with secrets, who bared his soul, would cease to exist.

Spencer didn't believe in resurrection. He certainly didn't believe in life after death. He would learn to forever hate "Humpty Dumpty" because in their relationship, he had become all the king's horses and all the king's men ... and for the life of him, he didn’t know how to put Aaron Hotchner back together again.


	8. Eggshells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one has been brutally attacked. Hotch tries to adjust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 5 “Faceless, Nameless”. This story takes place in the 34 days between 5x01 and 5x02.
> 
> CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT
> 
> COMMENTS: This isn’t a pleasant fic. We tend to take our anger, fears and frustrations out on those closest to us. Medications that help heal us also can have vicious side-effects. While TPTB seemed to have forgotten they gave Hotch a brother in Season 1 (“The Tribe”), the fans didn’t. So, I gave a reason why that, well, Sean Hotchner wasn’t around during the whole Reaper deal. BTW, I’m not obsessed with Hotch puking in a sink or him threatening Reid with a gun. It just happens. Yeah, there may be some HIPPA issues floating around Hotch’s after-care but, hell, do you really think the Team would not stick their fingers in the pie? Didn’t think so.

*****///*****

 ** _“In brightest day, in blackest night,  
No evil shall escape my sight.  
Let those who worship evil's might,  
Beware my power...”_  
—Captain Hal Jordan, USAF**

 *****///*****

It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked. The trepidation. The irrational fear rushing through him followed by the sharp swift pain as his body protested when he involuntarily tensed up.

He wondered if his neighbors peeked out of their doorways as he passed by, unsure whether to apologize for _not_ calling 9-1-1 when they had heard the ruckus coming from his apartment at nearly midnight. For fuck’s sake, the damn gun hadn’t had a silencer. The shot had been loud. If _that_ hadn’t alerted them to something being wrong, the scuffle afterward should have been a big hint.

Cowards. _Bastard cowards._

How many times during cases had Hotch heard witnesses protest, “But I didn’t want to get involved!” or “I thought it was nothing.”

Hotch had little patience for those types of people before all this mess, and this incident only solidified his disdain for those thoughtless, careless, _selfish_ cowards. God help them if Hotch had to ever question one of them during a case.

Hotch fumbled with his keys, cursing the harsh sting along his forearm and sides.

 _You shouldn’t be doing this alone._

Fuck that. He didn’t need any damn help.

 _You don’t want them to see you this way. Weak. Feeble. You can’t even wipe your own ass without doubling over in agony._

Thank God the team (including Garcia) was in Texarkana, his brother was in France, and his parents were dead. Haley and Jack were…

No. It was better not to think about the latter.

He jabbed the key in the lock. He could manage just fine on his own.

***///***

The cocktail of prescription painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, anti-anxiety, and anti-depressants made him dizzy and nauseous.

Hotch had never been keen on taking medications, even for the aches that came after someone had attempted to garrote him. Or from wrecking the SUV into the UnSub’s vehicle as a last-ditch effort to end the chase. Or from bone-deep bruising that one could only get after being blown ten feet backwards as a car bomb had detonated.

He had lined up the bottles on top of the toilet tank, labels facing outward. They were arranged in order of dosage frequency. The last one was supposed to be taken before going to bed, one that would knock him out for at least six hours.

Six hours where he would be at his weakest, most vulnerable.

Hotch hadn’t taken it last night because he had puked up the chicken broth and medication he had for dinner; he wasn’t about to risk another round of worshipping the porcelain god. It was a special kind of agony when surgically-repaired abdominal muscles heaved.

Thank God the team was still in Texarkana.

And if Hotch hadn’t called his brother after being nearly blown up in New York over a year ago, there was no way in hell he was going to call him over something as trivial as being stabbed. Sean had finally secured an internship in Courchevel, a stepping stone Hotch was sure his younger brother needed to advance in the culinary world. There was absolutely no reason to disrupt that. No reason at all.

 _It’s your arrogance that’s going to do you in._

He shuffled towards the living room, not wasting the energy to actually lift his feet. His toes dug into the soft plush of the carpet. Going without dress shoes and socks had been Hotch’s only concession while dressing this morning. The loose fabric of his boxers and the fine wool of his suit trousers felt good against his legs. The soft cotton of his undershirt contrasted comfortably against the starchiness of his pinpoint oxford dress shirt. The red silk tie was his “Tuesday” one, an order he kept in his closet to avoid wearing the same one twice in a row. Haley had started that particular ritual, insisting that there was no way he would ever move up the chain of command if people believed that he only had three ties. It was one of the few leftovers from his marriage that he still abided by.

Like people actually gave a shit about what kind of tie he wore.

 _Reid does._

To hell with Reid.

His big toe caught on a rough patch of the carpeting that shouldn’t have been there. He glanced down and then to the side, and when the nausea hit, he automatically pawed for the desk chair that should have been to his left but wasn’t. Bile tickled at the back of his throat and Hotch decided that the kitchen sink was closer than the toilet.

He made it in time and watched through watery eyes as the undigested pills swam in the yellowish liquid his body had expelled.

Stupid. He knew better than to take those medications on an empty stomach.

But, at least he learned something: leaning over the sink to puke was certainly less stressful on his body than kneeling in front of the toilet. The garbage disposal would take care of any food that came up.

His heart hammered in his chest. Annoying as hell, but it would subside eventually.

Hotch rinsed out his mouth before washing down the mess. Once finished, he cleared space to the left of the faucet so he could move his medications there. It made sense, actually. Close to the sink and the water glasses. Near the fridge so he’d remember to eat something when taking the pills.

Plus, prescription drug addicts—which Hotch definitely was not—tended to keep their paraphernalia squirreled away in the bathroom. So when the Team stopped by (and he knew they would), it would be one less thing for them to check off on their “How bad is Hotch’s PTSD?” list.

 _Why hadn’t anyone searched for him after he didn’t pick up the phone right away on that morning?_

Hotch shook his head.

 _Why hadn’t Reid?_

Had Reid kept his Dialudid in his bathroom back when he had been using? Or had he carried it around in his messenger bag? Probably the latter, because there had been mornings when Reid had been a bit slower, a bit slurrier, than normal.

It wasn’t as if Hotch would ever ask.

Reid could go to hell.

***///***

Hotch’s post-divorce, new apartment indulgence had been the flat screen plasma TV. He only had basic cable, since the amount of travel required for the Job did not merit one hundred twenty-six channels. He also favored movies over television shows, especially because it seemed there was no escape from procedural dramas.

He skipped over the “Reid” section of his collection, although his attention lingered on _The Empire Strikes Back_ , which was next to a copy of _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_. “There’s a surprising similarity between Emperor Palpatine and the Child Catcher,” Reid had said in passing but, oddly, had never elaborated on. Still, _Empire_ was Reid’s favorite of the _Star Wars_ triology—they both had agreed that the prequels didn’t count as real _Star Wars_ movies—and one of four that Reid would pop in when he took over Hotch’s kitchen to make a meal. Hotch could cook, but Reid did it better, cheerfully explaining that, “Cooking is chemistry with edible ingredients.”

Hotch wondered how many times _that_ line had been used.

Still, Hotch had put up with the movie he had a personal hatred of, because Reid was a decent cook. He knew he hid his dislike of it well; Reid was stupidly conscientious about things like that and would have certainly retired the movie from rotation if he had known.

But it wasn’t as if Hotch would ever explain. Some things were just too… personal. It wasn’t as if Reid had earned the explanation, especially after…

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hotch still remembered sitting in the tenth row, middle seat on _Empire_ ’s opening day with two of his friends. When the climatic scene where Darth Vader declared that he was Luke’s father and Luke’s subsequent denial had unfolded onscreen, Hotch had been transfixed. There it was: proof. Proof that a person was not destined to become his father. An evil that, up until that moment when Luke shouted how he would never join Vader, Hotch had been convinced he would grow up to become.

There had been hope.

But the evening of that revelation, his father had dashed it courtesy of a tennis racket to Hotch’s shoulders and thighs.

Hotch hated the movie ever since. He also loathed tennis.

There. _Some Like It Hot_ with Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe. One of Billy Wilder’s finest.

He muted the sound before settling on the couch and picking up the file on his coffee table.

Just because he was on mandatory leave didn’t mean he shouldn’t be working.

***///***

Hotch owned navy sheets. Not because he was into the whole home décor crap, but because the sheets had been on sale. He wasn’t going to waste money on something that he wasn’t really home all that much to use. If he wanted fancy bed linens, he would go to Reid’s.

“You’d be surprised what you can find in a thrift shop,” Reid had said once in defense of the insanely-high thread count. It was bedding that Hotch would never admit that he had a certain, hedonistic weakness for, ones for which (at one time) he would have stayed the night without hesitation if they were on Reid’s bed.

Reid.

He glared at his personal cell phone as it rang. Again. Fourth time in the past hour. Sixteen text messages since seven a.m. Where the fuck was all this persistence on that morning?

To hell with Spencer Reid.

STOP CALLING, he pounded out on the little keys and refused to read whatever messages were sent. He threw the phone towards the kitchen just because he could.

He re-tucked the sheet around the cushions of his navy couch and fluffed his pillow. Sure, his bed was more comfortable, but the television was in the living room as were the case files, and he had more room to work.

He settled back on the couch, stretching his legs out. Awkward, sure, because his gun rested oddly on his hip. It wasn’t either of his Glocks, which were still (annoyingly) in evidence, but the second service weapon he had ever owned: a Sig Sauer, the same style that Gideon used to carry. Because of the bandages, Hotch had to wear the hostler forward, like Reid did, and he wondered how in God’s name Reid could ever effectively draw his weapon.

Shit. No wonder the idiot had been shot in the fucking knee. Served him right for carrying his weapon so stupidly. It also made Hotch think of the Philip Dowd case, and afterward, how Reid had carried Hotch’s backup Glock in his fucking _pocket_. Jesus Christ, how dumb was that?

Hotch sighed and adjusted the pillow again. He glanced at the door, making a mental note to find out how much the additional lock had cost, and knowing he would have to bully Morgan into accepting the money as repayment. Morgan had also been responsible for having the bullet hole in the wall repaired and the area of carpeting that had been soaked with blood replaced.

He stared at the plate with his lunch on it. Yes, his fridge had been stocked full of the essentials—milk, juice, eggs, fruits and vegetables—and his freezer full of individually, homemade meals all from Mama Bianchi’s. He knew which member of the team provided what. The cookies craftily tucked away in the bread cubby were definitely from Garcia, while JJ and Prentiss had provided the fridge items. Rossi, of course, had brought the Italian.

He craved Reid’s chicken and rice casserole.

It pissed him off.

The Team was now in Missoula.

Hotch took a bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

***///***

Hotch wasn’t sure what he was thinking when he had put his Friday tie in the washer along with his dress trousers. The trip through the dryer had only made them worse. ‘Dry Clean Only’ meant Dry Clean Only. He balled them up and stuffed them in the trashcan by his desk. He wasn’t sure what do with his suit coat that now didn’t have matching trousers.

He settled down on the couch, smoothing out the navy sheet against the back cushions. His gun was still forward on his hip, but he’d practiced relentlessly until he was able to draw and aim the weapon with the same fluid motion that he had with his Glock. It was still awkward, but he had mastered it.

The team was still in Missoula, everyone except Reid taking turns calling him every night. Garcia hadn’t graced his door just yet, thank God.

Hotch checked the newly installed security system.

Again.

***///***

The _thump-thump-thump_ jolted Hotch from his nap. He immediately palmed the hilt of his gun as his vision cleared from the fog of sleep. He swung his feet to the floor, ignoring the protest of his body, and listened carefully, noting the odd gait of whoever was walking down the hallway in his apartment building.

Anger flared up, because if he could hear the sounds of someone clumsily making his way down the hall, then why hadn’t any of his goddamn neighbors deigned to call 9-1-1 when they had heard the shot? Hotch could make out the thumping, and he had a ten-percent hearing loss in his right ear.

Sharp knocks at the front door followed, and Hotch immediately recognized the pattern.

He blamed the medication for the dizziness as he stood, as well as for the nausea that triggered a wet, bile-laced belch. He shuffled to the door. He checked the peephole twice, once to confirm his visitor and a second time to make sure there was no one else lurking behind him.

He undid the locks, biting back the flare of pain from his left side. He swung the door open, took a step back, and adjusted his stance.

Reid looked like shit. Pale skin even paler than before. Sweat glistening on his upper lip and forehead. Hair matted around his face while the rest of it looked greasier than usual, as if Reid hadn’t washed it in days. The younger man leaned heavily on the aluminum crutches, knuckles white where he gripped the handles. The black brace was stark against his khaki pants. The bag that was slung across his body wasn’t his usual tan leather one. This one was olive green and a little larger, looking suspiciously like Army surplus.

“What do you want?” Hotch asked sharply.

“May I come in?” Reid’s voice was firm. Polite.

“Why?”

He let go of the right crutch and held out his hand, palm up. The silver key glinted in the low light.

Anger turned quickly to cold fury. Hotch remembered the conversation, the offer made, and was stunned at the audacity. “You want me to leave my goddamn apartment?”

Reid’s mouth dropped open slightly before he said, “No.” He shifted on his crutches, barely masking the wince. “May I please come in and sit down? I want to talk. We haven’t since…”

“There’s a reason for that,” Hotch snapped. He didn’t have to say, _Why didn’t you call that morning when you realized I was late? Why is this the first time you’ve stopped by? God knows everyone else on the damn team has been here._

He broke away from Hotch’s gaze. Softly, “Please, Aaron.”

“No.” Hotch slammed the door closed. He was in no mood to deal with this.

***///***

The fourth time Rossi circled around the coffee table, Hotch had had enough. To hell with manners and polite conversation.

“Will you fucking stop that?” Hotch snarled as he sat at his desk. He still hadn’t finished the incident report. He knew he couldn’t submit something that said: ‘the motherfucking piece of shit bastard stabbed me like the impotent fucker he is’ followed by ‘my goddamn team was only thirty-minutes away from my apartment and none of the selfish assholes bothered to check why I wasn’t answering my goddamn phone’ and ending with, ‘Spencer Reid is a prescription drug addict. Dialudid is his drug of choice. Random weekly drug tests should be mandatory.’

It still felt good to type it.

Rossi paused and then turned to face him. “And if I don’t?”

Hotch simply glared.

The other man nodded slightly. “I know you’re on edge. Hell, I would be to, considering.” He gestured in the air, indicating Hotch’s living space. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to stay here?”

“That son of a bitch is not chasing me from my own goddamn apartment.”

Rossi let out a sigh. “Is that what this is all about? Who has the bigger balls? Christ, Aaron, you know better than to play that game.”

Hotch didn’t reply. Instead, he closed his laptop and pushed away from his desk. He stood, cursing inwardly that he still had to hold on to something for balance. He also cursed inwardly at Rossi, who made no bones about observing his behavior.

“Spencer was at the office today,” Rossi said after a few moments. “First time since he got shot. He has to keep his leg propped up to keep the swelling down. He says he’s been cleared to go back to work.”

“And?”

“You do know that Morgan’s been staying with him.”

Hotch flinched. A fresh wave of pain hit from where his muscles tensed. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from gasping aloud. His hand found the grip of his gun. “And why the fuck should I care?”

“If my lover was shacking up with… What does Garcia call him? The Chocolate Mountain Thunder Sex God? You know, the guy who can pick up anyone in any bar at any time without lifting a finger?”

“Reid gets solicited far more often than Morgan does,” Hotch interrupted flatly. He watched as Rossi casually approached him.

“Solicited. Nice term there, Aaron.”

“What the hell is your point?”

“My point is that yesterday was the first time Spencer left his apartment since being released from the hospital,” Rossi replied. “You know? He’s had a few setbacks. Some issue about a bone chip or some shit like that. So, yesterday, he _orders_ Morgan to drive him here. He refuses to allow Morgan to help him out of the car, up the stairs, going all ‘Mister Independent, I’m Fine’ and all that crap.” Rossi closed the distance between him. “It seems that Spencer had been planning on staying with you. You know. Since it was _Thursday_ and all that.”

“Thursday,” Aaron sneered.

“Yeah. _Thursday_. As in, on the Friday mornings that we’re in town, you’re not such a complete bastard,” Rossi shot back. “Hell, you even smile on occasion.” He planted his hands on his hips, one close to the Springfield .45 on his belt.

“We are not having this conversation, Rossi.”

“Oh yes, the hell, we are, _Aaron_.” He crowded into Hotch’s personal space. “Spencer took a cab in this morning, and the first thing everyone thought was that he’d stayed with you. Morgan dared to ask how you were doing but got cut off. And you know Spencer’s a pretty nice guy. He doesn’t take people’s heads off unless he’s really upset about something. And when I asked him how it went last night, he told me—and I quote—‘it’s none of your fucking business.’”

“He’s right about that, Rossi. It really isn’t any of your damn business.”

“Aaron, I consider you one of my closest friends,” he countered. “And I’ve watched you and Spencer sort out your relationship in the pressure-cooker of the BAU, watched how you’ve come to rely upon each other. You’re discreet. You’re also cautious. You both also make it clear that you don’t let your personal relationship interfere with the Job. How the fuck you two manage to do that is beyond me. But, regardless, you do.”

“Stop it, Rossi.”

“No.”

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, pain exploding through his waist and torso at the sudden movement. His vision blurred for a few seconds and he knew he swayed. Still, their gazes locked. Hotch knew he was bearing his teeth.

“Don’t you see what you’re doing?” Rossi’s lips peeled back into a sharp yet sour smile. “Foyet’s been stalking you for _months_. He wanted his attack to be perfect. So like a good little psycho who happens to be skilled with computers, he gets a whole bunch of information on you. Divorce records are public, you know, so Foyet knew that Haley filed, not you. He knows the terms of the custody agreement. He figured out his target. He knew what would have the biggest impact on you. He then picked the best moment, the best time to attack.”

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“Think about it, Aaron. Foyet already _knew_ that you and Spencer spend a lot of off-duty time with each other,” Rossi continued. “He also knew that you spend the night together sometimes. But that didn’t fit in to what he wanted, to what he had planned. Spencer’s not a target, Aaron.”

“I said…”

“He’s not,” Rossi insisted. Suddenly, he shook his head. “You’re doing exactly what Foyet wants, Aaron. You’re cutting yourself off from everyone.”

“Go to hell, Rossi.”

“You’re letting him win, _Aaron_. Stop being such a bastard and let us help, okay? Let _Spencer_ help.”

“Get out or so help me, God, I will…”

“Think about it,” Rossi stated coolly. “Really, truly _think_ about it. Something like what you have with Spencer doesn’t come around all that often. I should know. I’m—what? Fifty-five now?—and I’m _still_ searching for what you managed to luck in to. You throw this away? Then Foyet has won.” He spun on his heels and then walked swiftly to the door. “I know you’ll lock up behind me.”

Rossi left.

And Aaron sank to the floor of his kitchen, hugging his knees to his chest and ignoring the pain blazing through his body.

 _You’re letting him win, Aaron._

***///***

“Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“Yes,” Hotch answered, trying his best not to snarl at Ginny as she scribbled in his chart. It wasn’t her fault that he had been stabbed. It certainly wasn’t her fault that the cabbie just wouldn’t shut the fuck up on the way over here. It absolutely wasn’t her fault that Doctor Reyes was running forty-minutes late.

It wasn’t as if Hotch had to be anywhere that afternoon; he had fifteen more days of mandatory leave. He was on his fourth revision of how to respond to the psych evaluation.

She continued with the preliminary inquiry about his medications, appetite, pain levels… Her voice was full of pity and with a tone that was more suited when speaking to children than an adult. Her fingers lingered just a little too long taking his pulse. Her thumb brushed the edge of the bandage on his right forearm, her breath hitching a little.

He didn’t appreciate the coy way she looked at him between writing the notes for Reyes.

 _She’s on her second marriage. Two children judging by the dated bangles on her bracelet. A career in healthcare is an afterthought, the ‘need to get a job because I’m getting a divorce’ type. Ginny’s a painter, landscapes more than likely, because of the various shades of green she hasn’t quite been able to scrub off her fingertips and from under her nails. It’s not taking care of people that gives Ginny job satisfaction; it’s being able to read someone’s charts and convince herself that her life is no where near as shitty as someone else’s. It’s why she’s a technician, not a full RN or nurse practitioner. She doesn’t have the patience or drive to accomplish more than that._

 _Ginny’s itching to see his wounds because they aren’t the typical ones that this office deals with. Reyes’ patients aren’t law enforcement officers; they’re lawyers and stockbrokers and lobbyists and other white-collar workers who think that every crime is solved like on the procedural TV dramas._

 _Fucking idiots._

 _She can’t wait to gossip to the other women in the office that yes, it’s him, and she desperately wants to see him with the gown open. The glint in her eyes is completely unprofessional._

 _Ginny occasionally meets patients outside of the office. The way she holds his wrist while taking his pulse. The way she leans so that the neckline of her scrubs—which have been altered to be lower-cut than the standard because the stitching doesn’t match the rest of the top—gapes, enabling him to take a peek if he wanted. The way she shifts her hips and glances over to him. She’s probably wearing a red lace bra because that’s what men see in porn films and she wants to be the Naughty Nurse._

“I need to listen to you heart.” Ginny smiled in what she probably thought was a friendly-manner. But her mouth was set just a little too off-center, her lips tipped just a little too much. She held up the chrome chestpiece and then breathed on it. “To make it warmer,” she explained, almost cooing. “We don’t want that cold metal against your bare skin!”

Hotch hitched an eyebrow. He rolled his shoulders back and fixed her with a stare. He had intimidated the fuck out of the nursing staff in New York City last year, and they were used to dealing with stubborn jackasses. This woman was nowhere near as tough (or able) as the staff at that New York hospital.

Ginny took a step back.

Hotch's smile was anything but friendly. “First, you’re only a technician, not a nurse practitioner. You do not have the training for auscultating a heart. You use this ploy as part of your seduction, to see how willing your target is to accept your advances. You have affairs with patients of this office to make up for the inadequacies of your home life, both socially and sexually.

“Secondly, the last ‘cold metal against my bare skin’ was a switchblade wielded by a psychopath, which you should have known given how familiar you are with my chart. You won’t be fired outright; Doctor Reyes will dismiss my claims as part of the obvious PTSD that I’m experiencing. However, he will monitor your actions more closely. Once Reyes has proof of your indiscretions, you will be put on administrative probation. The words ‘sexual harassment’ will never be brought up, but certainly there are other patients besides me who find your behavior unacceptable."

Her gaze darted from side-to-side. “Mister Hotchner…”

“You’re finished here, Ginny,” he said flatly.

Her exit was anything but graceful.

Reyes appeared a few minutes later, shaking his head as he closed the door. “You’re being a hard-ass on my staff again, Aaron.”

“Your staff was being unprofessional, Claude,” he retorted. “Ginny made a pass at me.”

“You’re a handsome man.”

“It’s inappropriate in the workplace, especially in a medical professional atmosphere.” He met Claude’s curious stare. “I’m not the first one she has offered ‘out patient’ services to.” Claude’s lips tightened slightly and he rocked a little back on his feet. Hotch shook his head. “Which you’ve known about, of course, and you keep hoping that she will turn her attentions to you. A woman like that, Claude, is no reason to ruin your marriage. She seduces men above her social status…”

“Aaron, that’s enough.”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. “Your choice.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow and then read aloud, “Irritability, dizziness, nausea…” The change in subject was hardly unexpected and was as clumsy as the man’s attempt to hide his desire for that technician. “Hyper-vigilance is expected after what you’ve been through. Have you found yourself more short-tempered with family…”

“The son of a bitch took my family away, Claude.”

Reyes closed the folder and leaned against the counter. “Not all of them. You still have your team. When my dad worked…”

“Are you going to check the sutures or not?” he interrupted.

“Are you taking the medications that the hospitalist prescribed in addition to those that I had prescribed?”

Hotch glared. “Yes.”

Reyes nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that at least explains some of your behavior. Given the condition that you were in when you were left at Saint Sebastian’s, I’m not surprised that the staff weren’t able to pull your medical history right away. Not with how protective your group is about personal information.”

“We’ve had our personal information used against us, Claude.”

“And the medications that the hospital physician prescribed don’t mix well with the ones that you’re already taking,” he responded. “Now, I am going to check the sutures to see how they are healing. I’m also going to prescribe a new drug regime to hopefully alleviate the paranoia and agitation.”

“I’m paranoid?” he challenged.

“You’re sitting in an examination room wearing a hospital gown, boxers, socks, and an ankle holster with a loaded gun. I’m sure Ginny didn’t see the—what is that? A Sig Sauer?—that you have hidden by the gown and the paper covering the exam table. In all the times I’ve seen you, Aaron, you’ve rarely carried your weapons in to the office and, when you do, you disarm yourself before the staff comes in for the pre-exam questions.” Claude let out a slow breath. “You’re also very hostile.”

“Hostile?”

“Let’s put it this way, Aaron. Two of your three emergency contacts called me on my unlisted number, one of whom gave me a laundry list of things to check for. He even had a printed copy hand-delivered to my condo plus a list of observed behaviors by different colleagues. The biggest concern was your hostility and that you were armed. I was also provided a timeline of the attack. Doctor Reid? Well, the man certainly knows his stuff.”

His lips pulled back into a sneer. He surprised himself with his demand: “Where the hell was all this concern that morning?”

Reyes dropped his hands to his sides. “They estimate that Foyet attacked you near midnight. You were admitted to Saint Sebastian’s at five the next morning. They didn’t get the call for the case until seven. There was no way they could have helped you, Aaron, and no way that they could have known. It’s not their fault. I know it’s easier to blame…”

“We’re done here,” Hotch announced and slid off the table. “We’re done.”

***///***

Hotch wasn’t sure why he opened the door. Maybe because he realized Reid would continue knocking like some OCD idiot until he answered it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the sight before him. Reid still looked like shit, hair a complete mess and greasier than last time. Hotch stepped aside but didn’t gesture for him to come in. He watched in disdain as Reid slowly _thumped_ inside and then quickly locked and bolted the door after him.

“Thank you,” Reid said quietly as he turned to face him.

It was then he remembered what Reyes had said to him yesterday. “You called my personal physician and handed over sensitive information!” he snapped without preamble.

Reid straightened. His chin lifted. “I’m your lover,” Reid countered flatly. “The good. The bad. And the ugly.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“You’re acting irrationally, Aaron.”

“You’ve never been stabbed by a goddamn psychopath!” he yelled.

“Technically, I have. Hankel stabbed me with a needle several times and injected me with Dilaudid when he did. It is a type of symbolic rape. Penetration: the needle. Ejaculation: the release of fluid in my bloodstream. Unlike you, I’ve actually been killed by one, but at least he had the courtesy of resuscitating me. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Hotch’s stomach picked that precise moment to protest the Campbell’s Chunky Beef Stew. He barely made it to the sink in time. He could hear the thump of crutches over the roar of the garbage disposal. When he was finish cleaning up the mess, he whirled around, hand dropping to his hip, and glared at Reid.

“Are you going to shoot me, Aaron?” There was sharpness in his tone. His gaze flickered down.

Hotch’s grip tightened on his Sig Sauer. He forced himself to pry his fingers away from the reassuring weight. He didn’t drop his gaze from Reid’s.

The younger man’s eyes narrowed as he looked past Hotch to the kitchen counter. He hobbled forward, forcing Hotch to move when his crutch tip came too close to crushing his bare toes. Reid leaned down briefly before asking quietly, “Have you been taking all of these as prescribed?”

“You have no business…”

“I’m still listed as your emergency contact,” Reid replied as he straightened. “So until you change that, this is my business.”

Hotch glared.

Reid’s chin lifted again. “Everything I saw last time and in the first three minutes tonight tells me that you’re paranoid, agitated, and hyper-vigilant. Yes, those are to be expected, but you’ve taken it to an extreme. You’ve been sleeping on your couch, haven’t you? Facing the door so you can react if someone entered.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Reid.”

 _“Aaron.”_

“Get out.”

“No.”

Hotch closed the distance between them, rolling his shoulders forward and glaring harshly. “Get out of my apartment now!”

“Foyet knows about us, Aaron. He _knows_ ,” Reid said firmly, softly. “He was able to break into your apartment with no signs of forced entry. He picked the night that you were the most tired, the most vulnerable, and the most alone.”

“Stop.”

“Please, Aaron.”

“Get out.”

“I’m not the target. I will never be the target,” Reid continued, “because Foyet doesn’t see me as a threat. And that’s his mistake and that’s going to help us catch him.”

“I said leave, Reid.”

The man broke eye contact, glancing to the side and then to the floor. “I want _us_ , Aaron.”

“There is no ‘us.’”

“Yes, there is. You just have to…”

“Leave.”

Reid bit his lips together and then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” whispered. “I’m so sorry this happened. So sorry—”

“Stop with the apologies. It’s pathetic. Look at you! You’re _pathetic_. You’ll _never_ replace Haley. You can never be like her or take her place. She’s beautiful, loving and gracious. No matter what you think and no matter how hard you try, you can never be her. Not then. Not now. Not ever. It’s over, Reid. It’s over.”

Reid’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open.

“It’s over, Reid.”

“Aaron!”

“It’s. Over.”

Reid’s mouth clamped shut. His lips formed a thin line. His eyes narrowed. He straightened to his full height.

And Hotch watched as the younger man slowly turned and hobbled out of his apartment without a backward glance.

“It’s over,” Aaron repeated softly, and wondered why his cheeks were damp.

***///***

Aaron woke up screaming.

He grabbed his gun from beneath his pillow, pain surging through his body as he swiftly got to his feet.

He panted heavily.

His heart raced.

He couldn’t find his flashlight.

He struggled to turn on the lights.

He prowled his apartment, whispering ‘clear’ after each corner he turned, after each closet he checked, and after each room he surveyed.

Clear.

 _Clear._

He crawled back into bed.

He kept the lights on.

He slept with his gun in his hands.

****///***

Showering with nine stab wounds was a phenomenal pain in the ass, but Aaron was determined to do it. He couldn’t get the sutures wet, so he used gauze pads (which he had tons of, thanks to JJ, Garcia and Prentiss) and layered squares of cling wrap over them before sealing them with waterproof tape.

He’d never been particularly vain about his arm or chest hair but the shaved areas made him think of the _Looney Toons_ cartoon where the electric shaver had gotten out of hand and how the Monster ended up with bare spots. He remembered sitting on his couch, DVD remote in one hand, and his arm around Spencer’s shoulders. He remembered Spencer’s passionate discussion of how hair tonic just couldn’t do that.

Aaron remembered chuckling. _When you’re five years old, you really don’t think about things like that._

He remembered how Spencer had crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. _I thought about things like that when I was five._

 _Of course you did._ Aaron had leaned in, pressing a soft kiss on Spencer’s jaw. _It’s one of the reasons I…_

Aaron dropped the scissors in sink.

He gripped the porcelain with both hands.

“It’s better this way,” he whispered, head bowed. His vision blurred. “It’s better this way.”

***///***

Aaron stared.

And stared some more.

He recognized the envelope immediately without having to look at the handwriting; it was the same type that Spencer used for letters to his mother. Hell, Aaron even had a box of the stationary at his apartment.

He checked the date and then the seal; Spencer was the only person he knew of who actually used wax on his correspondence. Satisfied that it hadn’t been tampered with, Aaron used the letter opener to slice open the top. He sat down at his desk as he pulled out the sheaf of paper.

Several objects spilled out: the key to Aaron’s apartment, a penny, a nickel, a dime, a quarter and a half-dollar.

The piece of paper was blank.

Aaron’s hands shook.

It took three tries for him to pick up the penny and he swiveled the arm of his desk lamp so that the light was closer to the coin. It was a 1999 Wide AM Reverse Lincoln Cent, the rarest of the three wide “AM” pennies produced between 1998 and 2000; Reid had given him the other two for Valentine’s Day. The coin’s luster was superb and there were very little strike marks. It would probably be graded Choice Uncirculated-MS63.

 _“Penny for your thoughts,” Spencer murmured as they lay next to each other in Aaron’s bed. It was four days before Aaron’s birthday and they finally had a quiet moment. Spencer caressed Aaron’s left ear and then held up a dullish penny. The way he waved it front of Aaron’s face made him sit up and take the coin._

 _Aaron inspected it out of habit, because knowing Spencer, it wasn’t just any penny. He nearly dropped it when he realized just what he held. “This is a 1972 Lincoln Cent, Doubled Die Obverse…” He stared at Spencer. “Do you have any idea…?” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Of course you do. What grade is it? VF-20? No. Wait. VF-30?”_

 _Spencer laughed as he slid his glasses on, moving so that he was now shoulder to shoulder with Aaron. “You know? Jack has your smile.”_

The penny fell from Aaron’s fingers, rolling until it settled beside the other coins.

He didn’t bother trying to pick up the others, his hands trembling he moved the light closer to see the details on them. They had landed face up, their vibrant luster clearly indicating they were uncirculated. They were probably M61 or M62. It was then that Aaron saw the “P” on each.

His breath caught.

They were the four he was missing from the 1973 series in his coin album. The ones he refused to discuss with Spencer except to answer that, yes, ‘one of these years’ he would complete the set but it was ‘no big deal’ and really ‘not quite worth the effort to track down the missing ones.’

Because the original ones in the set…

 _“For your collection,” his granddad whispered before ruffling Aaron’s hair and then placing six coins in Aaron’s outstretched hand. “It’s the 1973 Philly mint set, the one Santa Claus forgot to put in your stocking.”_

 _“Wow! Thanks, Granddad.”_

 _“You’re welcome, buddy. Keep them safe, okay?”_

 _“Yes, sir.”_

 _“Now, go get in the car. Your dad’s waiting. Make sure you’re buckled up and make sure your mom is, too.”_

 _Aaron smiled, hugged his granddad, and dashed over to the sedan, tightly gripping the six coins. His father was glowering so he knew better than to show him the gift. Maybe when they got home or maybe tomorrow morning when his father wasn’t so…_

 _He stuffed them in his left pocket, thrilled that he now had both the Denver and the Philadelphia mint sets. Aaron would start on the thank you note the moment he got home._

 _“Mom? Is your seatbelt fastened?” he asked. His mother blinked blearily at him and waved a limp hand. She was always tired after visiting, even though she drank a lot of his grandma’s special orange juice. Aaron leaned over the bench seat and saw the strap across her waist (she never wore the shoulder harness because it wrinkled her blouse) before settling back in his own spot behind her. He knew better than to ask his father. That would earn the ‘Seatbelts are for sissies’ discussion and Aaron didn’t want that at all._

 _They rode in silence—one of his father’s rules—and Aaron was good at following the rules. He fingered the coins in his pocket, itching to take them out. While Aaron wanted to inspect them, especially the Eisenhower dollar, he knew better than to do so while his father drove. His father had a tendency to change lanes sharply and dropping anything in the backseat was never a good idea._

 _Suddenly, the car jerked hard to the right and slowed down. Aaron looked up and recognized the rest area but was surprised that they had stopped so soon. Maybe his father had to empty the ashtray or something._

 _His father pulled in to the rest stop and got out of the car, gesturing for Aaron to do the same. He obeyed, looking over to where his mother was dozing in the front seat like she always did, even if it was only a two and a half hour trip._

 _His father now loomed over him, hand outstretched and palm open. “Give me your change.”_

 _Aaron looked up, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of sour sweat and beer. He knew that any face he made when his father was in this particular mood earned a hard slap. He also knew better than to play stupid. He pulled out his hand with the coins. “They’re the ones Granddad gave me.”_

 _“You don’t deserve them,” his father snapped before prying open Aaron’s hand._

 _“But Dad! This is the 1973 Philadelphia mint set…”_

 _The slap across Aaron’s face sent him tumbling back against the sedan. The coins scattered on the ground. “Do not talk back to me!”_

 _“But it’s a set and I promised Granddad that I’d keep them safe,” Aaron insisted, knowing he was flirting with another hit. “I promised him.”_

 _“You didn’t do shit to deserve them!” His father grabbed his shirt front and threw him to the ground. “Pick them up! Now!”_

 _“Do what your father says, Aaron,” he heard his mother slur._

 _Aaron bit his lips together. He knew better than to cry. He picked up all six coins and got to his feet. His father grabbed him by his shirt collar and propelled him to the set of vending machines; Aaron managed to hold on to all of the coins. They stopped in front of the one with cigarettes._

 _“Pall Mall, unfiltered.”_

 _Aaron temporarily froze. He knew he was risking a beating—not like anyone would intervene because the rest area was deserted—but, “I promised Granddad.”_

 _His face was suddenly smashed against the glass of the machine. “Pall Mall, unfiltered.”_

 _This time, Aaron couldn’t help the tears that welled up in his eyes. He deposited the quarter, the nickel, the half-dollar, and the dime. He pulled the lever for the red-packaged cigarettes. He heard the coins drop in the machine._

 _He watched as the packet of cigarettes tumbled out._

 _“Give me the rest of it,” his father ordered._

 _Aaron picked up the packet of cigarettes and placed it along with the two remaining coins in his father’s hand._

 _“If you wash both cars, take out the trash, and weed the garden, then maybe you’ll earn these back. But it will have to be your best work. None of that half-assed shit like you do for your mother.” His father then sneered at him, “Are you crying, you little…”_

 _“There you are, William,” his mother’s voice interrupted. She listed to the side as she walked, wobbly on the chunky heels that she wore. “And Aaron… my little Hopscotch… my…”_

“—Hotch? Aaron? Aaron!”

Something touched Hotch’s shoulder.

 _He’s here. He’s back._

Hotch surged to his feet, tipping the chair over as he did. Someone was shouting at him. Fear poured through him.

 _He’s here. He’s back._

Hotch pawed blindly for his weapon, stumbling backward as he did. The pain flared, causing him to bend to one side out of sheer agony. Hands gripped his upper arm but he jerked away. He lost his balance. He fell hard on his ass, his back slamming against the wall. He pulled his weapon. His vision was blurry but he knew he was the best shot in the BAU.

 _Front sight…_

He sucked in short breaths, his lungs refusing to allow him deeper ones.

 _Doesn’t fit the profile._

“Hotch! It’s Emily! You’re safe!”

 _Front sight…_

His hands shook.

 _Doesn’t fit the profile._

“It’s Emily Prentiss! We work together at the BAU. You ran security clearances for my mother years ago. It was one of your first commands.”

“Front sight…” but the gun wasn’t lining up properly. He couldn’t hold his weapon steady.

He couldn’t take a full breath.

 _Doesn’t fit the profile._

“Please! Hotch! Don’t make me… please. Hotch! Aaron! It’s Emily Prentiss! I work with you at the BAU. It’s just me! You didn’t answer the door so I let myself in. You’re safe. You. Are. Safe. Focus on my voice. Focus!”

“Front… sight…”

“ _Aaron!_ You’re safe. It’s Emily and you are in your apartment. You didn’t answer the door so I let myself in. You’re safe. Put the gun down. Please. Put the gun down. You don’t want to shoot me. It’s Emily. God, Aaron. Please.”

“F-f-front…”

 _“Aaron!”_

Ice cold hands wrapped around his and the weapon.

“Let go of the gun, Aaron. Now.”

His grip tightened. “I promised...”

“Let it go.”

“I promised…”

“Agent Hotchner, I am giving you a direct order: let go of your weapon.”

“I…”

“I am ordering you to let go of your weapon.”

His grip loosened. The metal was pulled from his hands. His arms were still outstretched as if he still held it.

He felt fingers tugging at his pants leg. He heard the hostler being unsnapped. He felt the weight removed from his ankle. His arms dropped to his sides.

“Agent Hotchner, what is the security code to your alarm system?” she demanded. She grabbed his chin and shook him. “What is the security code?”

He stared at Emily’s pale features, the starkness of her red lipstick making her mouth look bloody. She was angry. Oh, so angry. He was in trouble. He knew that. He did something wrong. So… the only way to make it right again was to obey.

“Three hash one four one five,” he managed to get out.

Emily dashed over to the keypad and pounded in the code.

He then watched as she sorted through his desk, picked up his cell phone, and jabbed at the keys. “Agent Hotchner, you need to tell the security company that this was a false alarm. Do you understand?”

His breath still came in short bursts.

 _“Do you understand?”_ she barked.

He flinched, curling in on himself. She was angry. Oh, so angry. He knew how this worked. He knew what would happen if he didn’t do as he was told. “Yes.”

 _“ADT Security Company. How may I assist you, Mister Hotchner?”_ The phone was on speaker.

His father wasn’t the only one who could wield a belt.

“T-this is Aaron H-hotchner,” he forced himself to say. “I-I tripped…I t-tripped the…alarm.”

 _“Sir, is there anyone else in the apartment with you?”_

“This is Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss with the FBI. I am a colleague of Agent Hotchner’s.” Her voice was firm. Powerful. Terrifying. “We tripped the alarm by accident. You don’t need to send the police.”

 _“Mister Hotchner?”_

“I-I’m fine,” he stuttered. “I tripped the alarm by accident.”

 _“Sir, we have a security team en- route…”_

“Unnecessary. False alarm.”

 _“Sir…”_

“False alarm. I’ve only had it for two weeks. I’m still learning. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

 _“Okay, Mister Hotchner, if you’re sure, I’ll have dispatch cancel the trip.”_

“I’m sure. Please. Please don’t send them.”

 _“Okay, I’m canceling the trip. Have a nice afternoon, sir! Good bye!”_

He watched as Prentiss hit the end key. Prentiss then punched in another series into the phone. This time, her voice wasn’t as authoritative. This time… she sounded worried. Aaron knew how that worked as well. Guilt always followed the anger.

“Reid, it’s Emily. Look. I’m here with Hotch and there’s a situation…What? His other phone? Reid! Slow down. Okay. Find his other phone. Okay. Wait. Found it! Okay. Call Samson. Got it…I’m hanging up now.” There was a long pause, silence broken by four beeps and the rustling of paper.

Prentiss was now kneeling in front of him, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead several times and placing her thumb against his wrist. Hotch stared at her.

She had his smaller cell phone pressed firmly to her ear. “Hello, Mister Samson? This is…Reid? What? Why?...Okay, don’t answer that. No. He wasn’t answering his door so I used the spare key…For God’s sake, I’m not Morgan, Reid! I don’t kick in doors! The deadbolt and chain weren’t on. He was sitting at his desk but didn’t turn around when I called to him…Of _course_ , I called the security company and said it was a false alarm…Okay. Okay. No. He jumped out of his chair and fell. He’s not hurt…No. Reid…Reid… _Spencer, damn it!_...Yes, hyperventilating like a panic attack but he seems to be calming down…Yes, pupils are dilated from what I can tell. He’s shaking. Clammy skin, racing pulse…” Prentiss stood up and walked to the kitchen. “You want me to read off all the labels?...What? Okay…okay…hold on.”

She knelt in front of him and grabbed his hand. “Agent Hotchner? When is the last time you took your medication?”

Aaron sucked in a breath. He held it.

“Agent Hotchner?” Prentiss squeezed his hand. “Agent Hotchner…”

“I-I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Please. I don’t remember.”

“He doesn’t remember, Reid,” Prentiss reported, but then stroked the top of Hotch’s hand gently. “Okay. Okay. Yes. Got it. I’ll wait for your call. Okay.” She hung up the phone and grasped both of Hotch’s hands. “Aaron? It’s gonna be alright. I swear to you. We’re going to get through this and you’re gonna be okay.” She sat next to him and gently placed an arm around his shoulders. She pulled him to her, stroking his hair. “It’s gonna be okay. I swear. It’s gonna be okay.”

***///***

The humiliation burned Hotch to his core.

This new physician presented her CV as she had sat on his couch, waited until he read it, and then asked if he had any questions. Which he did, of course. The exchange was more like Hotch heading a hostile interrogation than a friendly ‘so what are your qualifications and how do you know Reid?’ session, but this woman was new and Hotch wasn’t about to let just anyone into his private life.

He supposed he should be impressed by her training, her credentials… the fact that she was willing to make a house call on a moment’s notice.

Hotch was still phenomenally uncomfortable. His weapons were locked in the gun safe on his nightstand. Prentiss had ordered him to clear his code so she could enter her own, which she did after she had ordered him to take a shower. Prentiss hadn’t allowed him to redress in a suit; he was stuck with khakis and a button-down but that certainly beat sweatpants and a tee-shirt.

The new physician—Doctor Kincaid—didn’t melt under the pressure. She met his gaze and answered every single question, even if some her replies were, “You know I can’t answer that, Agent Hotchner, due to doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“You’ve testified before,” he observed.

Her lips curved into a smile. “A witness before God as well as the Fifteenth Judicial District.”

Hotch didn’t laugh.

“You’re stalling,” she added and then pulled out a clipboard. “I am doing this as a favor for a man whose friendship I greatly value, but my patience for patients only lasts so long. Are you going to allow me to evaluation your condition and make recommendations? It’s a yes or no question. I don’t want a long-winded explanation on why or why not.”

Hotch looked away. He nodded.

“I need a verbal commitment, Agent Hotcher. Those are my rules.”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. He looked down at his tightly clasped hands. Prentiss was “running errands” or whatever the hell that meant, but she would be back soon.

“Good. Then. We are going to verbally review your medical history, up to and including the attack that took place here, and then we are going to discuss what happened today.”

And Aaron Hotchner did what he was told, because he’d learned long ago that the faster one complied, the quicker things were over.

At least Hotch was allowed to keep his shirt and trousers on. It made the whole situation a tad more tolerable but not by much.

Not by much at all.

***///***

The revised drug regime was somewhat overwhelming. Decreasing dosages of something Hotch had been taking paired with increasing dosages of a new medication. The one cup of coffee per day he negotiated for was stipulated that it had to be decaf.

A log book so that when he took his medications, he wrote down when he was taking it, what with, and how he felt at the time.

The promise to return to Doctor Kincaid’s office in two days with said log book in hand.

Prentiss typing in the details into her blackberry calendar, and then sending an invitation for him to accept on his. The entry was generic and could have been interpreted by outsiders as Prentiss simply sharing with her boss an appointment with her physician.

The crushing sense of shame because Prentiss witnessed him so weak, so vulnerable, and knowing that she was going to report back to Reid.

Spencer.

 _Spencer._

Spencer who had friends in places Hotch would have never thought to look. Physicians just didn’t make house calls anymore, especially on thirty-minutes notice for a patient she had never heard of.

 _I’m still listed as your emergency contact, so until you change that, this **is** my business._

“You need to report this incident to Rossi,” Hotch told Prentiss once Kincaid had left. He was sitting in the armchair, she on the couch. He stared at his bare feet on the beige carpet. The embarrassment was devastating but he knew he had to say it. He had to take responsibility. “There’s a form…”

“God _damn_ it, Hotch!” Prentiss exclaimed as she rocketed to her feet and pulled at her hair. “Will you stop?!? No one is filing any report!”

He placed both hands on the armrests as if to stand. She stormed up to him, startling him into staying in his seat.

“You listen to me, Aaron Hotchner! You are a good man. The most decent and brave man that I know!” Her eyes were wet with tears. “You have constantly put yourself on the line for every member of this team, _every single one of us_! You called the Goddamned _Vatican_ so that the man who murdered Matthew would be brought to justice!”

“Prentiss…” he warned.

“Don’t you dare ‘Prentiss’ me!” She took a deep breath and met his gaze. “So now it’s our turn to take care of you. And by God, you are going to put up with it no matter if you like it or not.”

“I’m doing just…”

“If you say ‘fine’ so help you, God.”

Aaron bit his lips together, staring at his feet. He whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She knelt down and grasped his hands. “Then don’t do it alone.”

***///***

Aaron stared at the cell phone plugged in to the charger on his nightstand. It was his personal one; Prentiss had confiscated his work one. He supposed he could bully her into giving it back. She was, after all, sleeping on his couch. She insisted, saying it was either her or Garcia, and he relented. He couldn’t take colorful fluffy things right now.

 _You don’t want any of them to see you like this._

It was 4:23 a.m.

Stupidly late.

Stupidly early.

Stupidly something.

He picked it up and flipped it open.

He looked at the call log.

Samson. 12:23 p.m. 05:21

Samson. 2:57 p.m. 03:01

Samson. 6:12 p.m. 00:37

Samson. 9:41 p.m. 00:05

Aaron bit his knuckle, hiccupped a sob.

 _The only reason you weren’t committed to Snowden at Fredericksburg._

His hands shook.

He typed: I’M SORRY.

He hit ‘send’.

He closed the phone.

He set it on the nightstand.

He grabbed Spencer’s pillow and hugged it to his chest.

And for the first time in twenty-three days, allowed himself to cry.

///***/// Finis ///***///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to both Theras and Pharmawriter for help with cutlery and chests, and again to Theras for medical terminology and procedure. To CMAli for a ton of handholding and pushing hard on a few scenes. To Pabzi for the cheerleading and the crit. To Lady_of_scarlet for the beta and commentary. Thank you.


	9. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer knows precisely how to touch Aaron and to make him _feel_ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh so NC-17.

***///***

 _ **It's an evolution of understanding and acceptance. To know what the body needs and understanding why it feels... no matter if one likes it or not.  
**_  
 **[](http://kuriadalmatia.livejournal.com/57511.html)*****///***

Spence always knows how to squeeze the head of Aaron’s cock just right.

Thumb over the slit, circling the crown, and down the shaft. Aaron leaned back against the pillows, spreading his legs just a little more, and turning so Spence couldn’t nibble on his earlobe like he liked to do.

“Stroke me,” Aaron commanded softly. “That’s it. You know how. You like using the olive oil because it’s heavier, slicker. Fuck, yeah. Just like that.” His arousal was frustratingly sluggish like it had been since…

 _Do not think. Feel._

“C’mon,” he growled, and the grip tightened appropriately. He kept his eyes closed. “I know you want to suck me. It’s why you’re using the oil. You like the taste…” He arched a little on the down stroke. “You have to use your hands. Just your hands. Yeah. C’mon. Work my cock.” Fingers drifted down and kneaded his balls rougher than usual, but _God_ just right. Aaron pulled his knees apart even wider, groaning. “Harder,” he demanded. “Make me feel it.” Because the feather-light touches were now something of the past.

 _Feel. Feel it._

“You want to finger me, don’t you?” he asked. “Work your finger in me to hit that sweet spot. Flick it until I’m panting your name? But that would be the easy way, wouldn’t it? No. You have to use your hands. Just your hands. On my dick. Work it. C’mon. _Work me hard.”_

The pace increased. The pressure increased. Aaron’s hips jerked. In one fluid motion, he sat up on his haunches. No longer leaning on the pillows, but kneeling in the middle of his bed as he kept his eyes squeezed shut because it was always better that way. He thrust in to those oiled hands which adjusted the grip as he moved.

“Just your hands on my cock,” Aaron ordered because he knew that Spencer wanted to pinch his nipples, bite his throat, lick his spine... “Nowhere else.”

Spence knew the rules. He was good at obeying them. And, God, that knowledge felt incredible as it manifested in to that sharp twist of lust that shot through Aaron’s spine and to his groin. He moaned, biting his lips because _finallyfinallyfinally_ things were working again.

 _Don’t concentrate on that. Just feel. Feel._

“Harder.” The tugging on his cock was on the threshold of discomfort but Aaron’s nerve ending began to sing… sing… sing that melody of _ohmyGodjustrightjustrightthere._

“I said, _harder._ ”

There. _There._ That pull. The pressure on the tip of his cock. The tight grip on his balls. Ferocious almost. Centering.

“Gonna…” Aaron breathed. A warning. But Spence would know how close he was. Spence always knew just how to work him. Just how. Just the way. Just _everything_ about his body.

Finally. Finally.

“Fuck!” He definitely shouted that out as the orgasm suddenly surged and burned through him.

He pumped his hips hard, pitching forward and losing his balance, but not caring because _finallyfinallyfinally_ after fifty-seven days, his body gave him release.

His come felt thick, more viscous that he’d ever remembered. The palm it coated was now near his lips. “Yes, I’ll taste,” Aaron breathed. “I know how much it turns you on when I do.”

He licked slowly despite it tasting bitter, sour. The lecture about his diet, how he was never to eat asparagus if he wanted a blowjob because apparently he was one of those people whose body converted aparagus to S-methyl thioacrylate and S-methyl 3-(methylthio)thiopropionate, floated in his mind.

Still. He used his tongue. He sucked the fingers. He knew exactly how Spence liked things done. And when he was finished, Aaron opened his eyes.

His bedroom was empty.

He didn’t care.

Finally. Finally, he came.

***Finis***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give the level of injuries Hotch had and the medications that would probably be prescribed, sexual release would probably be difficult. This also plays into the "impotent" comment that Foyet taunted Hotch with.


	10. Parallel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was rare for Spencer to outright panic. But when his former lover sent a text message—RU@MOVIES?—on a Thursday at 8:45 p.m., a chill shot up Spencer’s spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS TO: CMAli, daylyn, and ayashi_mikage for coming to my research rescue for S5 episodes as I recovered from foot/ankle surgery. To CMAli for excessive hand-holding, cookies and encouragement. To pabzi, as always, for the encouragement. To lady_of_scarlet for the beta and commentary.

_*****///***** _

**_"Look not back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around you in awareness."  
—Ross Hersey_ **

**_///***///_ **

It was rare for Spencer to outright panic. But when his former lover sent a text message—RU@MOVIES?—on a Thursday at 8:45 p.m., a chill shot up Spencer’s spine.

Hotch and Spencer’s professional relationship, for the most part, remained unchanged despite the fact that Morgan was now the one technically calling the shots at the BAU. It was a little more formal than it used to be, but Spencer had noticed Hotch was a hell of a lot more formal with them all nowadays.

For Spencer, it was the only contact they had now.

He initially hoped that Aaron ending their romantic relationship was a byproduct of the paranoia and irritability brought on by PTSD and a bad combination of medications. It had been terrifying to see his lover just…fall apart like that. There was no real way to describe Aaron’s behavior except extreme and uncontrolled.

Up until tonight, the only non-work related message that had been initiated by Aaron had been an “I’M SORRY” text message, which happened the morning after Prentiss had called about Aaron’s panic attack. Spencer still didn’t know all the details and Prentiss outright refused to discuss it. Spencer had texted back “PLZ TALK?” hoping that it would be an opening, but had never received a response.

When Aaron returned to active duty, Spencer noticed that he had stopped carrying his personal phone, which stung more than he expected it to.

Still.

Tonight.

A text asking about movies.

Spencer closed his eyes briefly and recalled how haunted Aaron had become. A bit more reckless. A bit more careless.

Funny how the three things that sent Morgan ranting about Hotch’s erratic behavior were three things that Spencer had done himself: returning to active duty “too early” (everyone was convinced Hotch had faked his way through the psych eval, but nothing could really beat Spencer successfully navigating the drug tests _and_ the whole ‘second opinion’ thing after Georgia), confronting an UnSub sans Kevlar vest and weapon (not to mention blocking everyone’s shot at the UnSub), and finally, chasing after an UnSub without waiting for backup.

Well, Morgan was just as guilty of that as Spencer was.

Then, something else kicked in, and Spencer’s panic sent him scrambling off his bed where he’d been working on a journal submission.

Jack’s birthday.

Not the boy’s actual birthday. That had been six weeks ago and the mood at the BAU had been somber. The whispers between agents reached a crescendo when they observed Kasselmeyer shaking Hotch’s hand by the elevators and Hotch clasping the other man’s upper arm.

In the lexicon of Hotchner Body Language, that gesture meant, “Thank you. I trust you. I consider you a friend.” It had been a while since Spencer had observed the gesture (even longer since he’d been a recipient), so yes, there was a bit of irrational jealousy that Kasselmeyer was bestowed that privilege.

If Hotch had been considered emotionally distant before, it was even more pronounced now.

It seemed those at the BAU had been expecting Hotch to act differently, to somehow mourn the fact that he couldn’t see his son on his birthday. But Spencer knew that it wasn’t Jack’s actual birthday that would bother Aaron. It would be the annual leave orchestrated six weeks afterwards, AL that had been planned for months.

 _I found this camping thing for kids his age. I want to make it special for him._

When Hotch had insisted that Spencer be part it, Spencer was speechless (and more than a little terrified). The original plan was to have Haley drop off Jack on Thursday night, and it would be father/son Thursday, all-day Friday, and Saturday morning. Then, Spencer would come over for lunch and spend four days with them, including two ‘camping’ days.

 _You’re part of my life and therefore, you’re part of Jack’s. Period. And, yes, you’re spending the night with me when Jack is here._

That was gone now, courtesy of Foyet. Today was the Thursday that Haley was supposed to drop Jack off.

That morning in the office, Hotch had been more surly than usual. The only person who escaped the Hotchner Stare during the afternoon Team meeting was Garcia, and that was by virtue of the Chocolately Toffee Coffee Biscotti which had mysteriously appeared on his desk around lunchtime.

The weather even matched Hotch’s mood: steady rain with occasional thunder and lightning.

Before Foyet, there would have been some kind of conversation between him and Hotch, even if it was a simple, “I’m pissed off and not talking about it,” from Hotch. Nowadays?

Nothing.

That, Spencer supposed, he could handle. He’d steeled himself for this eventuality—Aaron breaking it off—from Day One. He knew the risks. He predicted the behavior. And he wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or horrified that he’d been so accurate about how Hotch would act post-breakup.

The worst part about it was everyone trying to be helpful.

It was impossible to approach Hotch, so they focused on Spencer instead. There were days when he wanted to yell, “Leave me the fuck alone! My relationship with Aaron is none of your damn business! You’re not making it any better!” He never did, because that would cause the Team to focus on Hotch and that was the last thing the man needed.

So he sucked it up. Watched from afar, and swore that he’d take the shot even if Foyet surrendered (which he would… because the fucker was a narcissist and would want to relive his “masterpiece” as many times as he could).

Spencer finally understood why Elle had done what she’d done.

He glanced at the clock. He factored in the downpour (the reason he didn’t attend his meeting) and the effect it had on traffic. Spencer sent back:

I’LL B OVR IN 45

And when OK flashed on the screen, Spencer let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Spencer called for a taxi. He slung his messenger bag over one shoulder, checked for keys, wallet, and credentials, fitted his revolver on his belt, and balanced himself on his crutches.

It was pouring down rain.

He didn’t care.

///***///

Spencer checked his watch. He checked it again. He was three blocks away from Hotch’s apartment and traffic was at a complete standstill due to a four-car accident. It was thirty minutes past the time he’d promised Hotch he’d be there, but he’d faithfully updated Hotch on his status every five minutes. The replies of OK didn’t calm him like he thought they would.

The rain continued to come down by the buckets. Traffic hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Decision time.

Three blocks.

Close enough.

Who the fuck cared if he was wet?

He yanked out his wallet, then pulled out some cash. He thrust the latter forward. “Here,” Spencer said. “I’m getting out now.”

The cabbie eyed him and then laughed. “Suit yourself.”

Getting out of the vehicle with everything was tricky, especially because his anxiousness made him clumsy. He crutched over to the sidewalk and then set a hard pace for himself.

A memory flashed: _Easy, Reid._

The Philip Dowd case. Hotch cautioning him from running down the hall, from drawing attention to himself.

Foyet’s profile. The man would be keeping tabs on Hotch, just like he had with Detective Shaunessy and Roy Colson. Watching his handiwork from afar. Keenly paying attention to the news. Masturbating to the press release touting SSA Derek Morgan as the BAU’s new unit chief.

He shuddered.

Despite the rain, Spencer slowed down. He knew he was easily recognizable—tall skinny white guy with long hair and hobbling on crutches—but that was all the information he was going to give to Foyet.

By the time he reached Hotch’s apartment door, he was soaked to his skin. He knocked once, surprised at how quickly Hotch unlatched and opened the door. Unlike the previous two times Spencer had visited, Hotch stepped aside and wordlessly gestured him in.

Finally, an invitation.

Spencer didn’t miss the assessing gaze or the quirk of the eyebrow that was followed by the slight frown. He hobbled inside, water dripping from his hair and clothes, and listened as Hotch quickly bolted and chained the door behind him. The sharp tang of bourbon rolled off of Hotch, but his movements were too precise, too crisp, for him to be drunk.

 _There are sometimes… sometimes when I don’t want to stop. I do. I stop. But sometimes…_

 _Then you call me._

 _I’m not an alcoholic._

 _I didn’t say that. I’d just like to think I’m better company than Jack Daniels. You would do the same for me._

The other man then brushed by him and into the master bedroom. Unsure of what to do and wondering why he couldn’t even muster a simple ‘hello’, Spencer stood there, balancing himself on his crutches, and took in the state of the apartment. A half-full tumbler of bourbon was on the coffee table as was the decanter, which was three-quarters full, and Hotch’s personal cell phone, flipped open. The sheets and pillow were gone from the couch (thankfully) and the rest of the place looked neat yet lived in… the way it used to before everything… changed.

Spencer wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or panicked.

Hotch then reemerged from the bedroom, towels draped over one shoulder and a plain white robe over the other one. He pulled out the leather desk chair and layered one of the towels on the bottom. Then, he waited.

Spencer cautiously, curiously, went over towards where Hotch clearly wanted him. He wasn’t surprised that the desk was littered with parts of Foyet’s casefile.

Hotch dumped the remaining towels and robe on the floor. He lifted the strap of Spencer’s messenger bag and Spencer automatically ducked his head to allow the bag to be taken from him. The other man set the bag next to the desk and reached forward, touched Spencer’s wrist, and then unclasped Spencer’s watch, taking it off and setting on the desk. His cuffs were unbuttoned next and then Hotch tugged at the hem of his sweater.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Spencer wanted to say, _I need to sit down_ , but again the words were stuck in his throat. Hotch—no, this was definitely _Aaron_ in caretaker-mode—moved behind the chair and braced his foot against the back wheel. Spencer then shuffled over there and, after a bit of maneuvering, sat down heavily. Aaron took his crutches and then handed him a towel; Spencer ruffled it through his dripping hair because it was something to do with his hands.

He wasn’t expecting to feel Aaron tugging at his shoelaces. Spencer paused and glanced down, momentarily stunned that Aaron was now kneeling and untying each of Spencer’s sneakers, pulling them and the mismatched socks off. The socks were tossed toward the stacked washer/dryer. Aaron picked up a towel and, of all the damn things, dried off Spencer’s feet.

Panic mixed with concern, making Spencer’s belly twinge. Aaron was completely focused on removing the wet clothes. He wondered just how far it would go. He dropped the towel so it settled on his shoulders.

Aaron tugged at the bottom of the sweater again, but then opted to unfasten the holster and remove the gun, carefully setting it on the desk within easy reach. Spencer pulled off his sweater and Aaron took it from him, balling it up and tossing it over to join the pile by the washer. Aaron swiftly undid the buttons to the shirt next and waited as Spencer took it off. It too was thrown over to the pile.

Spencer was now shirtless and seated in front of his (former) lover, arousal snaking its way through his system as memories of being undressed with such tenderness flooded through him.

It wasn’t fair.

Hotch stood, grabbed the robe, shook it open and then draped it around his shoulders. Spencer automatically slid his arms into the sleeves and he could have sworn he saw a small smile twitch across Aaron’s otherwise unreadable features.

And when Aaron fumbled with the straps on the knee brace, Spencer’s grip tightened on the armrests. He wanted to say something— _Don’t_ came quickly to mind—but again, silence held him. Gently, cautiously, the Velcro was undone, straps sliding through the loops as the brace loosened against his leg. Spencer felt the light tap against his calf and he lifted it automatically. Aaron slid the thing off and then set it under the desk.

His belt was next, followed by his trouser button and zipper. Spencer knew he was staring dumbly at Aaron—his mind refusing to process, to compartmentalize, to do _something_ with Aaron’s behavior—and his lov…what was Aaron now? _Aaron_ quirked an eyebrow as if to say, _Gonna help out or what?_ Spencer braced himself on the armrests and then lifted his ass, closing his eyes as Aaron’s too warm fingers slid along the waistband of his boxers and trousers and then efficiently pulled them off with one move.

The only thing Spencer was left wearing was the robe and the bandage wrapped around his damaged knee.

He was half-hard.

He flicked the edge of the robe over his groin.

He was embarrassed.

He opened his eyes and watched as Aaron rooted through his pockets of his trousers, placing the wallet, credentials, keys, change, three golf tees, a die, and two Starlight candies on the desk. Aaron then took the trousers over to where Spencer’s other clothes were, opened the dryer door, checked the labels on the items that had them, put everything except the sweater, shoes and belt in the machine and turned it on.

Aaron then walked over to the bathroom with the sweater and Spencer let out a long breath. _This means nothing,_ he tried to firmly tell himself. _Aaron misses Jack, this is the weekend that we were supposed to celebrate Jack’s birthday, and I showed up soaking wet so Aaron is directing all his parental needs and urges… because that’s what everyone does to me._

Spencer rearranged the robe around him the best he could without causing the chair to roll too much around. He tossed the towel he’d been using on his hair to the side, where the one that Aaron had used on his feet was.

Aaron emerged with a fresh ACE bandage, knelt in front of Spencer, and began unwinding the wet cloth from around Spencer’s leg. When Spencer knee was finally fully exposed, Aaron’s fingers hovered over the damaged skin. The surgical incisions were still an angry red, puffed and swollen even though the sutures had been removed. The entry wound was nowhere near as catastrophic as the exit wound, which was to the back and side of Spencer’s knee. He’d won a new ACL because the bullet had ruptured it.

It was the first time anyone besides Morgan had seen the damage.

It took a few seconds to realize the harsh yet quiet breathing was Aaron’s, not his own. Aaron gently traced the edges of the bruising. Light. Surprisingly arousing. Spencer bit his lips together and closed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the expression on Aaron’s face, the gentleness he showed in examining the wound.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this erotic.

Warm fingers then gently massaged his lower calf. Spencer opened his eyes and watched how Aaron focused on the marks left by the brace.

 _Breathe. Breathe. This means nothing. He’s…_

Hands slid to either side of Spencer’s knee, then to his thigh.

Finally, finally, Spencer found his voice. “Please. Don’t.”

Aaron stopped. He pulled his hands away. His head was bowed. He reached for the ACE bandage, but instead of picking it up, his hand rested on top of it.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/kuriadalmatia/pic/00020s78/)

“I’m sorry,” Aaron whispered, his voice cracking and full of shame. “I didn’t…I…”

“Stop,” he ordered softly. “If you dare start that whole martyrdom shit, I swear to God…”

“You told me once to call,” Aaron interrupted hoarsely, still refusing to look up. His breathing pattern changed to short, steadying breaths. “There’s no reason for you to—”

Things hit all at once: the bourbon, the message, the behavior, a promise made the first time they were together, that even if they ceased to be lovers they could call one another no matter what.

“Pour it out.” It was Spencer’s turn to interrupt. Aaron’s gaze shot up to him, eyes wet and mouth downturned. There was an argument brewing there, probably along the lines of, _I’m not an alcoholic. Dave gave it to me. It’s ‘His Stash’. What will he think if it’s all gone when he stops by?_ Spencer met the man’s eyes with a hard look before amending, “Just what’s in your glass and the decanter.”

Aaron’s shoulders stiffened, his mouth twisted a bit, but he rose to his feet and took deliberate steps over to the coffee table. He picked up the decanter and glass, walked over to the kitchen, and then dumped the contents. Spencer closed his eyes and listened as the faucet was turned on.

Aaron hated dirty dishes. Despised them, in fact. Few people knew that the colorful threats regarding unwashed items in the sink that were posted in the BAU kitchen were created and hung up by the unit chief.

Spencer heard the soft slap of bare feet on the kitchen linoleum. The light drag of footsteps on plush carpeting. He opened his eyes as Aaron rounded the chair and began to bend. He knew instinctively what Aaron was doing: presenting himself as penitent, subservient.

He reached out. He touched Aaron’s wrist. “I need to elevate my knee.”

The other man stilled. There was another long pause. “Will you stay the night?”

Spencer glanced up, genuinely surprised at the question. Aaron still refused to meet his gaze. “Will you look at me?”

Eye contact wasn’t physically supposed to hurt, but this did. Because Spencer could see a wealth of emotions not commonly associated with Aaron Hotchner. Defeat. Self-loathing. Despair. Anger. Fear shone the brightest.

It took every ounce of his willpower not to flinch. Not to blink. Despite the fact that—

 _I’m a blinker._

“I don’t have—”

“Everything is still here,” Aaron countered quietly. There was that slight edge to his voice that suggested he was offended that Spencer would think he wouldn’t have made the offer without making sure that basic things like a toothbrush, razor and contact solution weren’t available. There was another pause. “Please.”

“Will we share a bed?” Spencer asked bluntly, because he wasn’t quite sure just where this was going.

And _God_ the reaction that question got. The sharp intake of breath. The slight tremble that Spencer could feel through the fleece cuff. The way Aaron licked his lips three times before looking towards the two bedrooms and choking out, “You’re… you’re too tall. I… I am, too. For…for Jack’s… Jack’s…bed.”

It was times like this that Spencer forgot completely about the ‘non-weight-bearing’ rule on his knee. He swiftly stood. He got out, “Aaron, no! That’s not what I—” before pain hit full-force and he collapsed back into the chair. He grabbed the top of his thigh, closing his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Spencer!” Sharp. Worried. Followed by Aaron’s own declaration of, “Fuck!” and then a whole lot of rustling.

“I’m fine…I’m fine.”

“You’re a goddamn liar,” hissed with that ferocity that Aaron had when he was truly concerned. It was followed by, “Shit.”

“I just need ice.” Spencer opened his eyes when he heard the other man march away. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the light on in the master bedroom. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing to witness Aaron’s temper. He wasn’t surprised that Aaron had obviously decided that the king-sized bed would be ceded to him.

Aaron came back to his side, picking up the crutches and holding them out to him. The man’s voice was firm, strong, controlled. “There are extra pillows on the bed. You can arrange them how you’d like.” _Oh, so Hotch._ His foot slid behind the one of the chair’s wheels, his hands steadying the back of chair. “What else will you need?”

Chivalrous bastard.

Spencer accepted the crutches and, after two tries, got to his feet. “A large glass of water and a palm full of Tylenol.”

Aaron nodded and let go of the chair before going back into the kitchen.

Spencer hobbled to the bedroom, robe hanging open and everything just _dangling_. He thought he would be more embarrassed, self-conscious that here he was practically naked while Aaron was fully clothed.

Then, he saw the bed. His stomach rolled hard. Given the facts and events that Spencer had, he expected all traces of his own existence to be erased from the room. Instead, the tabletop gun safe was still on what had been his side of the bed _(Mine only has enough room for two)_ , the mound of pillows were arranged just so _(I know you like to read in bed and you hate those laptop desks)_ , and… and…

It was as if he hadn’t left.

Sort of.

The top of his nightstand had never been so damn neat.

The sheets were clean. The pillowcases weren’t the same. Not obsessive behavior but… Spencer recognized the indicators. It was a space for someone… someone to come back to.

The knee twinged. Spencer cursed under his breath.

Or so he thought.

A warm hand cupped his elbow. “What can I do?”

Damn, the man was fast.

Spencer shook him off. He crutched over to his side of the bed. He sat down and then swung his legs up and over so that his bad knee was propped up on the pillows that Aaron had arranged, careful that the robe covered his chest and groin. Aaron made a quiet noise, one that conveyed his annoyance at _something_ , and Spencer looked up. Aaron held out two, quart-sized Ziploc bags filled with ice, but his head was turned away, his gaze downward.

“What?” Spencer asked because Aaron’s posture was overly stiff and formal.

There was a long paused followed by the huffed, “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked, Spencer.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I don’t know if I’m here as your coworker, your friend… your former lover…” Aaron’s head snapped up and their eyes met. His lips were twisted downward. He shook his head and then looked away. Spencer stretched out his right hand. “May I have the ice, please?”

The request jolted the other man into action. He approached the bed, handed over the bags and then retreated to the corner of the room. It was then that Spencer noticed the full-length mirror was gone. Aaron crossed his arms over his chest, focusing his attention on the door. Spencer placed one ice bag under his knee and the other on top. He leaned back on the pillows, hissing a little as he did. He was sore. He was tired. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument with Aaron, which he knew he was heading towards.

Aaron swiftly left the room and Spencer closed his eyes. Fuck. He was surprised to hear Aaron return and he opened his eyes as Aaron rounded the bed with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol, which he put on the nightstand. He paused, his gaze focused downward.

Softly, Aaron said, “I don’t know what we are now either. I broke it off. I deliberately hurt you. Then, I took advantage of your generosity by asking you to come over tonight because I’m a selfish bastard. I didn’t want to be home alone tonight because I kept thinking about the what if’s and should-have-beens.

“You said once… You said once, that even if you hit rock bottom, you can always turn around and head back up the stairs.” Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Spencer’s. His eyes were wet; he grimaced. “I didn’t want to go down the stairs. And of all the people that I know, you are the only one who understands that. I hurt you, Spencer. I said these godawful things to drive you away.”

“Yes, you did,” Spencer acknowledged, “but you also apologized.” He let out a long sigh. “I know you hate seeing yourself as a victim, but that’s what you are. Your physical wounds are just part of it. The psychological wounds are just as deep, if not deeper, and they will take much longer to heal.”

“I wasn’t there for you.”

“What?” Spencer blinked. “For God’s sake, Aaron, you were _stabbed nine times!_ How the hell…”

“Georgia,” Aaron clarified. “I wasn’t there for you after Georgia. I knew what was happening…afterward.” He bit his lips together. A tear spilled down one cheek. He shook his head hard. His voice was broken. “You needed someone…you needed us…and we just…I just…God, Spencer…”

“You trusted Gideon. You accepted his counsel,” Spencer spat back, surprised at his own sudden anger.

He had made amends with everyone except Gideon, and it wasn’t simply because Gideon was no longer physically present. There was a part of him that could never, probably _would_ never, forgive that man, even if all the literature said there were no excuses for addicts. He blew out a harsh breath but willed himself not to cross his arms over his chest defensively.

“Gideon probably told you that I needed to find my own way, that I needed to grow up and solve the problem myself,” Spencer continued. “I’m not making excuses for you, but it was a bad time for all of us. First with Elle. The whole thing with Morgan. You think that Morgan and I _don’t_ know the hows and whys of Prentiss being assigned to the team?” He shook his head at Aaron’s surprised expression. “Chief Strauss isn’t subtle.

“And if my timeline is correct, those were the months when your marriage really started to fall apart. You were trying to give one-hundred percent of yourself at work and one-hundred percent of yourself at home.” He paused, reading the tenseness in Aaron’s face and knew he was right. “The only thing you were successful at was work, because at least at work, you still had a team.”

It was cruel to say. Spencer hated himself for it, but this wasn’t the time or place for delicate wording.

Aaron hung his head. He whispered, “She was having an affair.”

Spencer sucked in a breath. He swallowed hard. Of all the bits and pieces Aaron had (reluctantly) shared about his marriage, this was a glaring omission. It nearly shattered the profile Spencer had mentally developed of the woman.

“She was having it right under my nose,” Aaron continued hoarsely. “I didn’t see that either.”

 _You didn’t see it because it didn’t… fit the profile,_ Spencer thought sadly. Yet… it also gave a significant clue as to why Aaron had given him so much leeway. He reached out again, brushing the back of Aaron’s hand with his fingertips. “You kept me on the team when conventional wisdom dictated that I should have been reprimanded for missing that flight in New Orleans.”

Aaron looked over. His eyes were wet as he shook his head slightly. “I found out about her… I found out after New Orleans.”

“When?”

“Milwaukee.”

Spencer folded his hands neatly in his lap. “That’s why you chose to stay with the Team.”

Aaron jerked out a nod.

Spencer closed his eyes, hating himself for what he was about to say, but knew it was the only way to get some definition to what they were to each other. “It’s why you pushed me away.”

“I had to.”

“But I’m not a target.”

“I… I don’t want to…”

“We _are_ , Aaron.” Spencer lifted his chin. Aaron glared. “You want me to stay the night. This is part of it.”

“Spencer.” Warningly.

“Explain to me why I’m not a target.”

 _“Spencer!”_ Barked. Harsh. The tone that sent people scurrying for cover.

“Aaron,” Spencer countered softly.

The man turned on heel and stormed out of the room. Spencer closed his eyes and flopped back on the pillows. He used to have two full changes of clothes here, so the fact that what he wore entering the apartment was still in the dryer…

Aaron suddenly stomped back in the room. His shoulders were stiff. His gaze hard, fiery. His lip curled into a hard sneer. His hands shook. Spencer gripped the robe, surprised that he hadn’t reflexively cupped his cock and balls from the force of the look.

“The media would focus on a senior FBI agent, the chief of an elite unit, fucking his younger, male subordinate. There would be questions about propriety, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ and fraternization rules. It would be sensationalized by the media. God help us, JJ would be trading barbs with _Perez Hilton_ over this.

“The Bureau would be struggling to tame the media frenzy, but they wouldn’t be successful. You and I would become poster boys. That’s not what Foyet wants. He’s narcissistic. He feeds on the press. He’ll keep his focus on Haley and Jack because _that’s_ the type of press he wants. It’s the breakup of the conservative, traditional American family that makes the headlines he needs to sustain his ego. He’ll leave breadcrumbs so that Roy Colson and those who pick up the Boston Reaper storyline will have something to continually write about—how the Boston Reaper destroyed not only one of Boston’s finest, but the unit chief of the BAU.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes closed, biting his lower lip as he listened to the profile, as he heard the pain in Aaron’s voice. It was there. All there. The reasons. The logic. What the Team had concluded two days after Foyet had attacked Aaron. And Spencer knew that Aaron had come to the conclusions himself, because the Team—not even Dave—would have dared approach him about it.

“He will _not_ destroy you,” Spencer snapped fiercely. He opened his eyes. He met Aaron’s anguished stare. “He will _not_.” He held the man’s gaze until slowly, slowly Aaron nodded.

“I won’t let him.”

“ _We_ won’t let him,” Spencer corrected softly. He reached out towards the other man, palm up and fingers curled slightly. “Come to bed.”

Aaron stood still for the longest time before shuffling awkwardly to the opposite side of the bed. He pulled back the covers. He crawled into bed still fully clothed, laying flat on his back, and stared at the ceiling.

Spencer glanced out to the main part of the apartment which was still fully illuminated. “You don’t have to keep the lights on for me.”

Aaron’s face contorted. Another tear slipped down the side of his face. Hoarsely, “I need them on for me.”

Spencer’s stomach clenched hard. He fought back a bile-laced cough. Instead, he reached out and gently touched Aaron’s shoulder. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this.”

Aaron glanced over briefly and then returned his gaze to the ceiling. “I know.”

///***/// Finis ///***///


	11. Haunting Pergatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken wasn’t a word that was supposed to be associated with Aaron Hotchner. It just wasn’t. But as Spencer sat next to him on the couch, listening to the one-sided conversation Aaron had with Jessica Brooks, it was the only word that seemed appropriate. (Spoilers for S5's "100")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 5, between “100” and “Retaliation”.
> 
> THANKS TO: @capybara_sun and @vanessasquest for suggestions on children’s books. To ice_ziggee for the beta and the push to include the Jessica conversations, to lady_of_scarlet for beta and the push to include the opening scene, to CMAli for the hand-holding during the initial draft, and to pabzi for the beta. Any mistakes left are 100% mine.

***///***

 _**C.S. Lewis said, "It is hard to have patience with people who say 'There is no death' or 'Death doesn't matter.' There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible."** _

***///***

The first thing Reid thought of when he heard the gun shot over the speakerphone was not, _Oh my God, Foyet killed Haley._

It was: _Jack is going to be terrified of loud noises for a long, long time._

///***///

In some ways, it was just like his dreams, right down to the bloodstain on the carpet and the drag marks leading upstairs.

Hotch adjusted his grip on his gun and the flashlight.

 _Clear._

In some ways, it matched the profile he had painstakingly developed over the past six months, right down to the final confrontation being in the master bedroom.

 _Clear._

Hotch saw the tips of the shoes in the full-length mirror.

It all became hazy after that.

***///***

When Reid heard the shouts of “Hotch! It’s over!” as he entered the house, he closed his eyes briefly and his stomach twisted in knots. It was uncharitable, perhaps, to think, _Please let it be Haley,_ but Reid knew if Jack was dead, Aaron Hotchner would be destroyed.

He held out hope that Jack was ‘working the case’ and safe.

 _What kind of father am I when I’m teaching my son how to hide from bad guys in his own home?_

 _The responsible kind, Aaron._

The furnishings in the house had changed since the last time Reid had been here. The original divorce settlement had decreed that the home was to be put up for sale with the proceeds split between Aaron and Haley. Aaron had been allowed to live in the home until it had been sold. However, with the real estate market so abysmal, there had been no legitimate buyers. Instead, the settlement had been reworked so that Haley and Jack would live there, and the mortgage would stay in both Aaron’s and Haley’s name until she either purchased the property outright or she and Jack moved.

JJ watched him, waiting. Reid jutted his chin towards the stairs. “First door on your left. The office. There’s a window seat with storage.”

She nodded and sprinted upstairs. He followed, hating that he couldn’t dash up the stairs as well.

 _If only…if only…_

As Reid reached the top of the stairs, he could hear Aaron say, “…with Miss Jareau.”

The wealth of emotions in Aaron’s tone was heartbreaking. He watched as Jack went to JJ, she lifted him, and the boy wrapped his arms around her neck. As she passed to go downstairs, Reid brushed his hand lightly across Jack’s back, the relief almost overwhelming. JJ bit her lips together and then left.

Aaron knelt there, silent. Bloodied. Bruised. Gore on his shirt and pants.

Spencer was frozen in the doorway…unable to limp forward, to clasp Aaron’s shoulder, to wrap his arms around him and whisper, “I’m sorry”—because he truly was—over and over until he was hoarse.

Instead, he watched as emotions crashed over Aaron.

Swift.

Vicious.

Undeserved for a man who dedicated his life to saving others, to bringing the wicked to justice.

A man who consistently played by the rules.

And only when Aaron stood and faced him, the utter devastation and horror so plain on his face, did Spencer realize his own inaction was precisely what Aaron needed. Spencer was Aaron’s shield, his protector… something Spencer rarely saw himself in the role of. For those few moments, he was grateful that he hadn’t been able to move.

It was the first time he’d ever felt that way.

As Aaron passed by him, presumably to go back to Haley, he grabbed Spencer by the forearm and squeezed. _Hard._ His other hand came up to briefly touch the back of Spencer’s upper arm.

The unspoken gesture of gratitude.

Spencer could only nod, not trusting his voice.

 _If only… If only…_

***///***

He didn’t think Jack understood.

Hell, _Aaron_ didn’t understand.

It wasn’t as if Aaron had never explained to a young child that Daddy or Mommy or a brother or a sister or someone wasn’t coming home. He never thought he would ever have that talk with Jack.

It was supposed to be _Haley_ who told Jack, “Daddy’s in Heaven now, watching over you.”

Instead, it was Aaron who was kneeling in front of his only son, talking about angels and wings and trying his best for his voice not to break.

Jack furrowed his brow for a few seconds and then he brightened a little as if he figured something out. “Is Mommy with Grandpa Brooks and Uncle Paul now?”

Aaron blinked rapidly, stunned by child logic and the simplicity of his boy’s statement. He choked out, “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Okay.” Jack held out his arms for a hug and Aaron pulled him close. Maybe Jack did understand. Or maybe he just thought Haley was going to come back tomorrow and pick up him up.

Aaron looked up and found Spencer’s watchful gaze upon him. Spencer had driven him and Jack home after… Aaron closed his eyes. He steadied his breathing. _God…_

Spencer’s voice was hushed, hesitant. “Would you like me to, ah…”

“Please. Stay,” Aaron interrupted as he slowly stood with Jack in his arms. His cell phone rang and he grimaced. It had been hours… hours? God, _hours._ His hands hurt; his knuckles were still swollen.

 _It’s over, Hotch! It’s over!_

His shoulders were sore. His back ached. His hip throbbed from when he had tumbled down the stairs and slammed into the wall.

“Let it go to voicemail,” Spencer suggested, calm yet firm. It was his ‘comfort the victim’ tone. Aaron wanted to be pissed—he wasn’t a victim, damn it—yet a blankness had settled over him. It terrified him, this dead feeling, but Jack wrapped his arms around his neck and all Aaron could do was hold on. “We can return the calls after dinner.”

The pronoun caught Aaron off-guard. He sucked in a sharp breath. He closed his eyes. He turned his head away. He gripped his son tighter, earning a squeak before he loosened his grip and set his boy down.

 _You don’t have to do this alone._

Aaron coughed a little before finally getting out, “Okay.”

***///***

Broken wasn’t a word that was supposed to be associated with Aaron Hotchner. It just wasn’t. But as Spencer sat next to him on the couch, listening to the one-sided conversation Aaron had with Jessica Brooks, it was the only word that seemed appropriate.

The evening had been oddly domestic. Spencer made dinner—blue box macaroni and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, the latter just plain wrong in Spencer’s opinion—and Aaron and Jack cleaned up the dishes. Jack had a bath, Aaron read him a story, and then Jack went to bed.

He watched as Aaron took his medications and made notations in the small journal that was kept near the pill bottles, noting the stiff set of Aaron’s shoulders as he wrote. It was obvious that Aaron resented having to list what he took, when, and how he was feeling; Spencer had felt the same way recovering from Anthrax and from his gunshot wound. Spencer was curious as to what emotion Aaron had chosen to describe his mood, but wasn’t going to violate the man’s privacy to find out.

The Emergency Contact trump card had already been played once and Spencer knew he had to be judicious with future uses.

Now, Spencer listened as Aaron spoke to Haley’s sister, the cell phone pressed tightly against Aaron’s ear.

“…don’t know if it’s my place, Jessica…” Aaron’s words were hushed, flat. Tired. Defeated.

Spencer tried his best not to shiver. He knew that Prentiss and Rossi had gone to tell Haley’s sister in person about what happened; JJ and Morgan would wait until they heard from Prentiss and Rossi to see if they were going to tell Haley’s mother, or if Jessica would. Haley’s mother was in a nursing home and in the final stages of lung cancer, which had been why Haley had broken the ‘no contact’ rule while in witness protection.

“…No. I understand. I’ll call the funeral home tomorrow morning and set up a time for us to meet…”

Unexpected anger flashed through Spencer, anger that, with all Aaron had been through, the Brooks family apparently expected him to arrange his ex-wife’s funeral. Sure, Spencer understood the drain of caring for a sick parent, but this…

Fingertips briefly brushed across his sleeve.

It startled him.

Spencer looked down and saw Aaron quickly withdraw his hand and it settle flat on the couch. He wasn’t sure how to interpret the gesture. Did Aaron suddenly need physical reassurance that Spencer was still there? That Aaron wasn’t alone? Or had Aaron picked up on Spencer’s reaction and was silently asking for him to understand? He let out a breath and leaned back.

 _You’re the one who said, ‘we,’_ he chided himself.

But there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

***///***

The scream woke Aaron up.

But it wasn’t Jack calling out for his mommy or daddy.

It was himself shouting for Jack.

Aaron bolted upright. Twice he tried to untangle himself from the bed sheets as he pawed at the gun safe. He could hear the thump of a cane on the carpet and his first name being called.

 _You’re safe. You’re home. You’re home._

“Jack!” he cried out again and struggled to get out of bed. He was uncoordinated. Everything hurt.

“Daddy?” The boy’s voice stopped him cold.

Aaron looked up to see his son standing in the doorway of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. Aaron released a harsh breath as his body finally decided to cooperate. He slid out of bed, onto his knees on the floor. He held open his arms and Jack immediately ran to him. He hugged his boy hard and chanted, “It’s gonna be okay, buddy. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Did you have a bad dream?” Jack asked.

He choked out a laugh as he released his son. “Yeah. I had a bad dream.”

“When I have bad dreams, Mommy sleeps in my bed.” Jack tilted his head slightly. “I can sleep in your bed.”

Aaron bit his lips briefly, cursing the fact that it was supposed to be him comforting his son, not the other way around. “I’d like that, Jack.”

Jack nodded sagely. “S’okay. Nothing to be ‘shamed of.”

He forced himself to smile a little. “I know. Thanks.” He ruffled Jack’s hair a little as he stood. He looked over to see Spencer standing in the doorway, watching. Aaron felt the humiliation burn his cheeks. “I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Spencer replied, concern clear in his expression and voice. “Jack’s right. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The younger Hotchner suddenly asked, “Will you read us a story, Spencer?”

“Jack, it’s late…” Aaron began, but Spencer quickly cut him off.

“Let me get the chair from the other room. Do you have a specific book that you’d like to hear?”

“Spencer…”

“ _A Bear Called Paddington!_ Mommy always reads that to me when I have a bad dream.”

Aaron watched as Spencer nodded and then limped out of the room. Clearly, he’d been overruled. Jack clambered into the bed, crawled over to Spencer’s side, and patted the spot next to him. His face was serious as he said, “You have to be under the covers before the story starts.”

Aaron coughed a little and then climbed into bed. He allowed Jack to prod him into place: him flat on his back and Jack curled against his side, head on his chest. Aaron pulled up the sheets and the blanket, relieved nothing was sweat-soaked. He looked over when he heard a bump against the doorframe. His desk chair was being rolled into the room by Spencer but there was no book tucked under his arm. Aaron opened his mouth to say something but Spencer shook his head sharply once.

“I couldn’t find your book, Jack,” Spencer said as he positioned the chair between the wall and Aaron’s nightstand. “But I can still tell you and your dad the story. Would you like that?”

“How do you know the story if you don’t have the book?” Jack asked.

“When I was a little boy, my parents would read me stories, too,” Spencer explained as he settled down in the chair. “Paddington was one of my favorites, so I remembered all the words.”

“Wow!”

“Wow,” Aaron echoed because honestly he never thought Spencer had been read such… _mundane_ was the only word he could think of. _Mundane works._ And for some reason, his vocal chords decided to betray him as he stated hoarsely, “I thought you only knew the classics.”

Spencer hitched an eyebrow. He quirked a small grin. “Paddington _is_ a classic.” He settled back in the chair, his long legs stretched out. “Now, you’ll need to close your eyes so you can remember the pictures as I tell the story, okay?”

Jack snuggled harder against Aaron, who continued to stare at Spencer. For all Spencer’s claims on not knowing how to be a parent…

Spencer winked as if to say, _I learned that one from you._ He folded his hands over his stomach. “You need to close your eyes, too, Aaron.”

So Aaron did… and tried his best to recall images of brown stuffed bears with floppy hats and worn out suitcases instead of pale skin mottled with blood or a man’s skull cracked open like an egg.

///***///

Six years ago, Reid would have spent the evening before the Internal Affairs hearing at Gideon’s, insisting that the then-Unit Chief drill him with questions until he could answer them with some semblance of authority and without rambling off-topic.

Six years ago, he would have nervously cycled through his coin and card tricks as he waited to be called for his testimony, trying to burn off some of the energy coiled in his body. Spencer would have recited code sections, cited statistics, and babbled about everything from NASA funding to DC traffic patterns because that was what he did when he was anxious.

Six years ago, Spencer would have stumbled through IA’s questions as he desperately tried to ensure none of his answers could be used against Hotch. He would not have been able to look Section Chief Strauss in the eye as he gave his statements. He would have dreaded returning to the waiting area where the other agents were, believing that they convinced themselves that he had ratted out their Unit Chief because he was politically motivated.

Six years ago… Jason Gideon was the BAU Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner his second-in-command. Morgan had just finished his second year on the team, Reid and JJ their first. Their technical analyst’s name was Harar and Regina “Regg” Shevlin rounded out the group with two more years on the team than Morgan and three on Reid and JJ. Morgan called Reid ‘probie’ and tended to treat him like the annoying little brother he never had.

Six years ago…

Reid wasn’t the same person he was six years ago. Thank God.

Strauss tried to shake his confidence with her biting, rapid-fire questions, imposing tone, and sharp looks, but she was nowhere near as terrifying as Aaron Hotchner in ‘take your lunch money,’ cross-examination prosecutor mode. Reid recalled the first time Hotch had coached him on giving testimony.

 _I’d make notes to myself in short-hand about each of the witnesses, so I could tailor my approach to them on the cross. The DNFWs were the most challenging._

 _Ah, DNFWs?_

 _‘Do not fuck with.’ And that’s what I want every defense attorney to think of when they see you on the stand. This is how you’re going to achieve it…_

Reid made eye-contact with each of the panel members as he answered the questions succinctly and truthfully. And when Strauss demanded if those were the exact words that were used, Reid met her hard gaze with a cool one of his own. “I have an eidetic memory.”

He didn’t spit the words out or say them condescendingly. He didn’t launch into an explanation of what it was. He just stated it matter-of-factly and waited for her reaction. Strauss’s features pinched. One of the panel members nodded his head, obviously impressed, and made a notation on the legal pad in front of him.

Reid wondered if it was ‘DNFW.’ He hoped so.

///***///

Aaron wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming stench of lilies. Haley’s closed casket was surrounded by floral and plant arrangements, but there wasn’t a spray of roses on the bottom half of her casket. Nothing with ribbons declaring “Sister” or “Daughter” or “Mother.” Nothing gauche like “Ex-Wife”; Jessica didn’t want her sister to be reduced to labels. She insisted on white roses to be carried by the mourners and placed on Haley’s casket at the conclusion of the services. Aaron didn’t argue.

He sat at the back of the parlor, index cards of his eulogy clutched in his hand. Jack was curled up beside him on the padded bench, already tired from the early morning start and from yet another round of explanations on why mommy wasn’t coming home. Aaron sighed as the guilt washed over him yet again.

All those speeches he’d given over the years, how it wasn’t the survivors fault, felt so hypocritical now. It was his fault, no matter what Dave had said in that alley in Boston.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jessica walk over and sit down next to him. Up until now, their conversations had focused on logistics of the memorial service and funeral plus reviewing Haley’s will and finances. Despite the divorce, Aaron was still listed as the executor of her estate and the primary beneficiary on her life insurance policies and retirement plan, which had surprised him. Jessica had obviously been surprised as well, but they had pushed past that in order to plan the funeral.

He held out the index cards to her. “This is what I would like to say.”

She accepted them. He stared at the ground as she silently flipped through them. Finally, she muttered, “You just had to mention _Pirates of Penzance_.”

“I didn’t know what else to say,” he replied defensively. He glanced at the casket before focusing his gaze on the back of the chair in front of him.

She handed him back the cards. “You made her out to be a saint, Aaron.”

“What did you expect?” He couldn’t temper his indignant tone. He clamped his mouth shut.

“I expected you to tell me to go to hell for making you write the damn thing in the first place,” she retorted. “But you didn’t. You wouldn’t.” Jessica looked over at him. “Do you always do whatever a Brooks woman tells you to do?”

Aaron stiffened. His words were low, hard. “I swore that I would spend the rest of my life making this up to her. And if speaking at her funeral because you asked me to is part of it, so be it.”

She shook her head. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life…”

“She’s dead because of me,” he hissed. “This is not the time or the place to have this discussion.”

Jessica shuddered and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She folded her hands in lap. After a few minutes, she broke the silence. “You still haven’t seen her.”

Aaron glanced down, relieved that Jack was still asleep. “I don’t want to remember her in a coffin.”

“Is that what you tell other families?”

“Yes,” Aaron answered. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the battered photograph, the one Foyet had left. It still had a bloody thumbprint on it. He showed it to her. “That’s how I choose to remember her,” he continued, meeting her gaze with a solemn one of his own. “Smiling. With Jack. Not…” He gestured towards the casket. “Not this. I can’t. I won’t.”

She looked at the photograph and then her composure broke. She slumped beside him, biting her fist to keep from bawling aloud. Aaron dropped the photo and pulled her tightly against him. As she clung to him, his own tears streamed down his face.

He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he never meant for any of this to happen, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Her hair is wrong,” Jessica suddenly told him between soft sobs. “When I saw her this morning…that’s all I could think of. Her hair is wrong. You know how Haley is about her hair.”

Shame washed over Aaron; he hadn’t gone near the open casket with Jessica and the mortician, making the lame excuse that someone had to be with Jack and that he didn’t want Jack to see Haley’s dead body. In Aaron’s opinion, the boy was too young and wouldn’t understand why ‘mommy won’t wake up.’ Thankfully, Jessica had agreed. However, he was surprised to hear Jessica’s comment, since he’d selected the best mortician, best parlor, best _everything_ …

Suddenly, Jessica pulled away, pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her eyes. Aaron took the opportunity to do the same. He could hear Jack’s question now, _If Heaven is such a good place, why are you and Aunt Jessie crying because Mommy’s there?_ He let out a slow breath and gently patted Jack’s shoulder.

Aaron rarely allowed himself to feel overwhelmed; the Job didn’t allow for that. But here and now, staring at Haley’s gunmetal gray casket, he felt like he was barely treading water.

“We’ll get through this, won’t we?” Jessica asked quietly.

He looked over and met her teary gaze. “We have to.”

///***///

Aaron’s eulogy was stunning.

Beautiful. Dedicated. Heart-wrenching. One that, years later, someone would say to Jack, “Your father dearly loved your mother.”

Spencer was there when Aaron had written it. For three nights in a row at a little after three a.m.—The Devil’s Hour—the man sat at his desk and worked. Aaron always looked a little paler, a little more haunted, when he called it quits and stumbled back to the bedroom, back to where Jack was curled up on Spencer’s side of the bed while Spencer had taken up residence on the couch.

The funeral was the first time Spencer had heard it, and he realized right away what the underlying message was: an apology. While Jessica’s speech had been more about Haley’s life history, Aaron’s had been a tribute and Spencer realized that, despite everything, Aaron really never had stopped loving Haley in some capacity.

Haley’s mother had been too ill to attend; the cancer treatments left her too weak to leave the hospice center. Perhaps it was for the better. As he walked away from the burial site, giving Aaron privacy with his son before the wake, Spencer’s mind stuck on the loop of the times he’d visited victim’s parents, when some of the mothers (and the occasional father) would beat their breasts and declare that no parent should ever outlive his or her child.

Aaron’s brother hadn’t been able to make it in either. It had taken two days to track down the younger Hotchner, who apparently was hiking through the French Alps without a cell phone. It took another day for Sean to finally call back. Aaron had insisted that Sean stay and finish his internship and his brother had reluctantly agreed.

Sitting at the table with the rest of the Team, Spencer watched Jessica match Aaron’s stalwart presence, accepting condolences with the same dogged determination as Aaron. Surprisingly, she buffered Aaron from the more angry outbursts by the Brooks family, second and third cousins who apparently were never too keen on Aaron to begin with.

Admittedly, Spencer was surprised that no one on the team had gone up to pay their respects yet. Strauss and a few other directors had, and then left. He surreptitiously glanced around and realized that the rest of the BAU, including Anderson and Alan who had been pallbearers, hadn’t approached Aaron either.

It didn’t make sense. Spencer’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly as he mentally ran through Christian burial rites and funeral etiquette. There was nothing that should have kept them from expressing their condolences, aside from awkwardness. Individuals would be uncomfortable, not the entire group. There shouldn’t have been hesitation. Hell, they should have been first in line to offer them so that they could leave. No one should want to spend an evening at a funeral home if they weren’t obligated to, even if there was an open bar and decent food.

Rossi… No. That wasn’t fair. Dave hadn’t moved from his seat. A man Aaron considered his best friend. Spencer looked over and was surprised when Dave met his gaze. The other man then jutted his chin _ohsoslightly_ in Aaron’s direction.

It was the first time in a very long time that Spencer Reid felt so…stupid.

They were waiting for him.

The entire BAU—except Strauss, of course—was waiting for _him_.

Fuck.

Spencer swallowed, hoping it wasn’t an audible gulp, as he pushed his chair back and adjusted his grip on his cane. He heard the shuffles and scrapes of chairs from the rest at his table. He willed himself not to blush as he began walking towards Aaron. Dave was to his left, Morgan to his right. Prentiss, JJ, Garcia, Will and Kevin fell in line behind.

He felt like he was leading a gang.

He almost laughed.

The thought died when Aaron’s attention focused on him, then on the group he was leading. Spencer watched as Aaron’s spine straightened and his mind filled in the sound-effects of armor clicking into place. What else was he expecting?

He wanted to say something, offer his condolences… _anything_ …but those words had already been said in various ways over the past four days. Aaron grimaced then nodded. Once Spencer was close enough, he offered his hand—something more _personal_ felt so out of place here—and Aaron grasped it firmly. He pulled Spencer forward slightly and then…he touched Spencer’s elbow lightly before his hand slid up to wrap around Spencer’s upper arm.

The squeeze was _hard_. Bruising.

In the same place and with the same force as the past three nights, after Aaron had woken up screaming Jack’s name and it took a children’s story read aloud by Spencer to get the two Hotchners back to sleep. He found himself pulled forward a little and they exchanged an awkward hug. Strange that the clasping of his arm conveyed much more than the embrace.

Aaron released him and Spencer stepped back. It was then he noticed that the group had formed a tight semi-circle around him and Aaron, a shield from the rest of the crowd. Spencer blinked a few times, stunned at the level of unspoken support and camaraderie from them.

Then, Morgan began, “Hotch…” his voice catching and he shook his head. He held out a hand and the handshake was firm; the two men exchanged pats on their upper arms.

“Thank you,” Aaron said softly. “Thank you.”

Spencer didn’t stick around to hear what Aaron had to say to the rest of them, or to see if he shook their hands or gave them hugs. He retreated back to the table. He wondered how bad tonight was going to be. He wondered if burying Haley would mean some of the demons would be buried as well.

He doubted it.

Then, JJ’s phone rang and from the way she answered it, everyone at the table knew what was going on. Spencer found himself glaring up at the ceiling. No. _No._ He glanced over to see Aaron watching them from the balcony. The other man gave a small nod and turned his back to the group; Spencer wanted to mouth that he was sorry but realized that would be the last thing Aaron wanted to hear.

As he stood to leave, he glanced over his shoulder, watching as Dave and Aaron talked briefly. He wanted to be the one who told Aaron, but knew that Dave was the better choice. The men were good friends. They didn’t have the ambiguity of a relationship that Aaron and Spencer had. Still, he sighed.

They had a case.

///***///

Jessica had only been around once or twice when Aaron had been called away on cases, the most memorable, of course, being his birthday. He remembered Haley giving him permission to leave and him telling Jessica, _You heard her. She said it was all right._ Even though he knew it wasn’t true, knew that he would be spending every second he was home again making it up to Haley.

Jessica’s biting, _You're one hell of a profiler,_ had stung like she intended.

Odd that once the marriage had imploded, Jessica had seemed a bit more on his side. Maybe she knew about Haley’s affairs. Maybe she knew about those other things. It had always been hard to tell just how close the Brooks sisters were. Sometimes they seemed almost identical in their beliefs and stances, while at others, they were polar opposites. Over the past year, it was Jessica who routinely sent Aaron photos of Jack, usually with Haley. It was Jessica who sent videos or emails about Jack’s latest adventures.

Still, Aaron was surprised she had asked to come home with Aaron and Jack after the wake. Then, Jessica confessed, “I can’t deal with Mother tonight.”

The cancer had made Mrs. Brooks even more self-centered and needy than she had been before. The few hours Aaron had sat with her, ready to answer any and all questions surrounding Haley’s death, Mrs. Brooks had only talked about her next appointments with the oncologist, financial difficulties, how lousy a caretaker Jessica was, and her pain. The only times she had mentioned Haley was to curse her for only calling once in the last six months and that she was even worse that Jessica when it came to ‘respecting her mother.’ Aaron knew the difference between denial and narcissism; Mrs. Brooks was definitely the latter. Instead of mourning the loss of her youngest daughter, Mrs. Brooks focused on herself. He didn’t blame Jessica for wanting to avoid that.

Jack was in bed. The lights in the apartment were on low. Jessica was powering her way through a bottle of red wine from the memorial service. She had commented, _Who the fuck gives wine at a damn funeral?_ as she had opened it. Aaron recognized the name on the tag as one of the numerous Brooks cousins. It had been the only alcohol on the table where people had dropped off container upon container of food. Jessica agreed to take half because there was no way that Aaron and Jack could consume it all before it went bad.

Now, sitting on his couch, Jessica held her glass in one hand, other arm protectively across her abdomen. The photos from the wake were on his coffee table. She took another sip. She looked over at him, squinting as if to see how much wine he had left, and then shook her head.

“You know? She told me about them.”

It stopped Aaron cold. It made him twist in his seat. He winced when he heard the plural pronoun. _Them._ Haley’s lovers. The ones that he had completely missed. It put the whole _‘You're one hell of a profiler’_ comment in a different light.

“Please…don’t do this,” he found himself pleading.

She ignored him. “They didn’t look a thing like you.”

“I don’t need to know.” He itched to get up off the couch, to pace…but couldn’t. “I don’t _want_ to know. I don’t want to know who they were, if they were there today. I don’t want to know, Jessica.”

“I didn’t want to judge but I did,” Jessica continued, as if she didn’t hear him. “And for all your faults…for all the stupid-assed decisions you made…” She reached over and grabbed his hand. She held it tightly. “I know how she treated you, Aaron. She didn’t tell me but I could see it. Hell, I grew _up_ with it, okay?”

Aaron’s stomach lurched hard. He bit his lips together. He pulled his hand away. This time, he did get up off the couch. He set his wine glass down. He ground out, “I loved her.”

Jessica met his gaze. “I know.”

He glared. “Are you finished?”

She had tears in her eyes. She looked away. She finished the wine and poured herself another full glass.

“You’re not driving home,” he told her flatly, arms tightly across his chest.

“If I go home, I’m going to open that bottle of whiskey and do something really stupid, so I thought I’d crash on your couch,” she replied, tucking her feet under her. “Jack said that’s what your friend Spencer did. He says Spencer doesn’t need a book to tell a story.” Jessica swirled the liquid in the glass. “You’re not going to kick me out. You’re too much a gentleman to do that.”

“I’m too much of an FBI agent to do that,” he shot back. “You’re drunk. Vulnerable.”

“Perfect victim,” she whispered.

“Exactly.”

Her mouth dropped open. She tilted her head to the side as if recalling something. “It’s always like that, isn’t it?”

Aaron knew that Jessica didn’t play the word games that Haley did, but he was still wary especially after the bombs she had dropped just minutes ago. He didn’t want this argument, not now. Not with Jessica. Not with Jack in the other room, because he knew his temper and her temper and _God,_ they would argue just like he and Haley used to. “What is?”

Jessica eyed him critically. Her voice was low. “It doesn’t stop, does it? Those phone calls. That call to duty. It doesn’t stop.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“There’s always another sick bastard out there, fucking up people’s lives. There’s some other family doing what we just did today.”

“Yes.”

Jessica curled her feet up under her. She looked away. “Jesus, Aaron.”

///***///

It was almost nine in the evening by the time Spencer got to Aaron’s apartment. They had gotten back from the case earlier in the day, but paperwork, a journal submission deadline, and such mundane things as bill paying had kept him busy. Plus, exhaustion made the lure of staying at his apartment very appealing. It wasn’t until Rossi called around eight and stated, “I found him talking to Haley’s grave.”

 _Shit._

Maybe Dave knew that the only person Aaron was willing to open up to was Spencer. He didn’t call beforehand, either; he simply showed up and knocked on the door.

A shadow passed over the peephole and Spencer heard the rattle of the door chain followed by the deadbolt and doorknob. Aaron opened the door and gestured for Spencer to come inside.

“Jack’s asleep,” Aaron said quietly once Spencer was inside. He closed and locked the door.

“I know.” Spencer turned and faced him. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

The other man shuffled over to and sat on the couch, gesturing toward it. Once Spencer had joined him, Aaron folded his hands, resting his forearms on his knees and bent his head. Aaron let out a long sigh. “Strauss offered me retirement with full benefits.”

Spencer’s mouth dropped open. Well, _that_ explained the reason for Rossi’s phone call. His temper flared—couldn’t that bitch just give it a rest for once?—and he fought to control it. He was unused to being angry and indignant on someone’s behalf…not on such a personal, visceral level.

It was then that Aaron glanced over, flashing a small, sharp grimace. His gaze then went from Jack’s room to the flat-screen TV. “I’d like to think she did it out of genuine empathy and understanding, because she’s a fellow parent.” He didn’t have to say, _It’s unlikely those were her reasons_. “I thought about it. I thought about Jack…How in the world I can juggle him and the Job?” He let out a harsh laugh. “Haley had a full-time job, but she worked normal business hours. She was able to pick him up from daycare whenever…always…always…

“Jack deserves a stable childhood, especially now. Especially after…” Aaron shook his head. “That’s all I could think about. And then Jessica…” Again, there was that harsh laugh. He bit his lips together. He looked down at his hands. Spencer wanted to reach out to him; he wasn’t sure what was stopping him.

“Jessica said she’d help out,” Aaron said. “She said that with everything that has been taken from me, she didn’t want my Job to be taken from me as well.” He leaned back on the couch. “She then reminded me that Haley was nine and she was fourteen when their father died. Their mother was forced to return to work and had to give up her garden club. She said she knew it wasn’t the same…”

Spencer nodded, the information providing a newer insight on Haley and the dynamics of the marriage.

“Jessica asked me if it ever stopped. Us being called away. If there was always one more bastard out there…I told her yes.” Aaron looked away. “So, I went to Haley’s grave today. I asked her if it was okay.”

Spencer almost said, _That’s what Dave told me,_ but held back. He was pissed that Dave hadn’t included the part about the retirement.

He must have tensed up because Aaron said softly, “It’s normal, Spence. Talking to the deceased. Seeking permission. Confessing sins.”

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t normal,” Spencer replied.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m concerned.”

“You think I should have taken the retirement,” Aaron stated flatly, suddenly crossing his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You grew up without a father…”

“Stop!” Spencer interrupted. “My situation was totally different. _Totally different!_ ”

“Don’t shout,” Aaron warned.

He closed his eyes and reigned in his temper. Aaron was right. The last thing Jack needed was to hear two adults arguing. The last thing _they_ needed was an argument. Quietly, “This is not my decision to make. It’s yours. I can’t tell you if it’s right or wrong.” Spencer opened his eyes and met Aaron’s gaze again. “What I can tell you is that I will support whatever decision you make.” He placed his hand, palm down on the cushion between them. “Regardless.”

Aaron stared at his hand. He frowned. “Jack’s my priority.”

“And he should be.”

“I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“I don’t either.”

“What you’re asking…”

“I’m asking to be your friend,” Spencer interrupted, his voice soft. “That hasn’t changed.”

“But you’re expecting me to…” Aaron paused then looked up, clearly expecting to be cut off. When Spencer remained silent, he let out a slow breath. “What are you expecting?” He jutted his chin towards Spencer’s hand.

“For you to give this, whatever it is now and whatever it will be, _time_ ,” Spencer answered. He met Aaron’s gaze and didn’t flinch. There were so many things he could say, but he knew that sometimes, silence was his best ally.

“Time.”

“Yes.”

For a long moment, Aaron didn’t reply. Finally, “I think I know how to do that.”

///*** Finis ***///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS: When Haley was in witness protection, she called her mother. Because of it, she and Jack were forced to change locations. In true “one-mentioned, quickly forgotten” fashion, Mrs. Brooks was a no-show at the graveside eulogy and the funeral home. She also wasn’t mentioned in later episodes when Jessica is pitching in to help out Aaron. Therefore, I created a reason why she wasn’t there. The same with Sean “the Chef” Hotchner.
> 
> As far as Jessica, I was honestly surprised how supportive she was of Hotch at Haley’s funeral and beyond. Grief does odd things to people, so I took some liberty with the Brooks’ background. Jessica may have been the mediator during Hotch and Haley’s divorce and perhaps may have been more on Aaron’s side than on her sister’s.
> 
> The pallbearers for Haley’s funeral were: Rossi, Morgan, Will, Kevin, Anderson, and no-name “BAU Agent” who has appeared in at least five episodes of CM over the years. The actor’s name is Alan Muetin so I’ve named him Agent Alan.


	12. Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Haley's funeral, Spencer has been invited over for dinner with Aaron and Jack several times. Will Spencer and Aaron be able to rekindle their romantic relationship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 5, “The Uncanny Valley” to post-“The Internet is Forever”

***///***

 ** _“The world is changed; I can feel it in the water, I can feel it in the earth, I can smell it in the air.”_** —Galadriel’s prologue (J.R.R. Tolkien, David Salo)

***///***

Of all the things Spencer Reid expected he would be doing on a Saturday evening, instructing Aaron how to make chicken and rice casserole while Jack colored a Stegosaurus blue were definitely not on the list. Since Haley’s death, Spencer had been invited over for dinner occasionally, always on a weekday but never on Thursdays.

The weekends were reserved for Aaron to spend with Jack, and the entire BAU seemed to move Heaven and Hell to get Aaron out of the office by five on a Friday on those weeks when they were actually in the office.

So when Spencer received the text DINNER W/US 2NITE? Saturday morning, he had to fight down the unexpected giddiness. It made him think about those times before the Attack (yes, it deserved capitalization in Spencer’s mind) when Aaron had talked about Spencer spending time with Jack.

 _You are a part of my life. You need to be a part of his._

It was a Saturday.

It was a step forward.

 _Perhaps…_

Still, one just didn’t recover that quickly from the murder of his ex-wife or killing a man with his bare hands or adjusting to the challenging lifestyle of a single parent with a demanding job, even if one was the King of Compartmentalization.

Yet now, sitting at the breakfast bar, he could sense the change. Spencer’s attention was divided between watching Aaron put together the ingredients, making sure Jack drew on the paper not the counter, and working on his own picture. Jack had insisted that Spencer color a dinosaur as well, and it was the first time in fifteen years Spencer used a crayon on something other than a geographical profile.

“Worcestershire sauce?” Aaron asked dubiously as he picked up the measuring spoons.

“One teaspoon,” he answered as he carefully shaded in the dinosaur’s neck. “Did you know that the use of a fermented fish sauce dates back to Greco-Roman times? It was called _garum_ or _liquamen_. Its use was documented in the collection of Roman recipes dating back to the late fourth or early fifth centuries A.D. The recipes are usually referred to as _Apicius_ , after Marcus Gavius Apicius who was a Roman gourmet during the first century A.D.”

“Fish sauce endorsed by a first century foodie.”

“Yes. You see, garum can be made with either smelt, sprats, anchovies, or sardines,” Spencer clarified. “It was a staple in Mediterranean cuisine. Worcestershire sauce can be seen as the modern equivalent and is made with anchovies.”

“Anchovies.” Aaron stared at the bottle and then looked at him. “You know I hate anchovies.”

“I hate anchovies, too!” Jack piped up as he set his crayon aside.

Spencer glanced down at the boy. “Do you know what an anchovy is?”

“Daddy does, and if Daddy doesn’t like it, then it has to be yucky,” Jack declared, complete with a firm shake of his head.

“Your father likes _fermented_ anchovies…”

“Spence…”

“ _You’re_ the one who had it in your pantry,” Spencer grinned as he pointed at Aaron with his crayon. “The bottle is half empty, so no complaining.”

“Okay, I hate _actual_ anchovies, as in the ones that besmirch pizza.” Aaron leaned forward and ruffled Jack’s hair. “Those are the kind we don’t like, right, buddy? Worcestershire sauce is okay.”

“Right!”

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “I can’t believe you! You’re telling your son he doesn’t like something he hasn’t even tried.”

“Do you like anchovies?” Aaron asked.

“That’s not the point.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Despite the Team’s belief that I only recognize coffee and sugar as food, I have eaten anchovies in a variety of things, including dim sum and puttenesca.”

“You’re evading.”

“You’ve been eating some form of anchovies and enjoying them for most of your adult life. If you’ve had any of Rossi’s pasta dishes with a red sauce, you’ve eaten anchovies, as in the actual fish. Plus, Worcestershire sauce is a common condiment, so you would have eaten it as a child. Don’t even get me started about Caesar salads.”

“Still evading,” Aaron shot back. “If we were court, I’d treat you as a hostile witness.”

“We’re not in court and I’m not evading,” Spencer defended himself. “I’m stating that I eat anchovies on a regular basis, but not in their whole form.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Spence.”

He glanced over to Jack, who watched their conversation with fascination. He looked at Aaron, who was busy mixing the wet ingredients but he was smiling. Spencer sighed, “If they are part of a sauce, yes. If they are straight out of a jar, no.”

Aaron leaned toward Jack and mock-whispered, “Spencer doesn’t like anchovies on his pizza, either.”

Jack shouted, “Yay!” which earned a gentle ‘inside voice’ admonishment from Aaron.

Spencer almost told Jack, _Your father is a bully,_ because there was no other way to describe Aaron’s persistence in getting him to answer how Aaron wanted the question to be answered. Yet, the words stuck in his throat. It was the first time since Foyet’s initial attack that Spencer had seen Aaron so relaxed.

It was the first time since that attack that Aaron _bantered_ with him.

It made Spencer blink twice and then hastily fill in the blank spot on the Brachiosaurus’s tail. Jack suddenly handed him a crayon and said, “You should make his toenails purple.”

Spencer stared. “There’s no evidence that a Brachiosaurus had purple toenails.”

“Jack,” Aaron said as he poured the liquid into the casserole dish, “let Spencer color his dinosaur how he wants to.”

“But it’s _boring,_ ” Jack complained, wrinkling his nose at the various hues of browns and brownish-greens that Spencer had selected.

“It’s more accurate. The Brachiosaurus was discovered in Colorado and Utah and existed during the late Jurassic period and possibly the Early Cretaceous Period,” Spencer stated. “It’s unknown the exact coloration of their scales, but given the climate and location, the Brachiosaurus would more than likely blend in with its surrounding territory since it was a fully terrestrial animal. You know, originally, scientists believed that because the Brachiosaurus had such large nasal openings,” he pointed to the head, “it spent most of its time underwater to support its weight. However, recent studies proved that the water pressure would be too great for the animal to breathe and its feet were too inefficient for aquatic life.”

Jack stared at him, his mouth hanging open. Then, he pushed his picture towards Spencer. “Tell me about my dino!”

Aaron chuckled and winked at Spencer. “Let Spencer finish telling me how to make dinner, then he can tell us all about your… what is that? A T-Rex?”

“Stegosaurus,” Spencer automatically corrected.

“You _know_ what kind of dino it is?” Jack asked with awe.

He shrugged. “Yes.”

Jack beamed at him brightly. “You’re awesome!”

Three hours later, Jack was in bed and fast asleep. Spencer spent almost the entire evening talking about the dinosaurs in Jack’s coloring book; instead of a bedtime story, Jack had begged him to explain the history of the two stuffed ones Jack insisted on taking to bed. It had been an odd echo of those first few nights after Haley’s death, when Spencer recited stories to Aaron and Jack. This time, however, Aaron opted to sit on the corner of Jack’s bed instead of next to the boy. After Spencer finished, Aaron made him honeyed tea and they shared a plate of shortbread cookies in silence. When the plate was empty, Spencer knew it was time to leave.

Aaron walked him to the door and undid the lock and chain. Before he opened it, Aaron brushed his fingertips from the tip of Spencer’s shoulder down to his wrist. Spencer’s eyes widened but Aaron was staring over his shoulder, towards the kitchen. Aaron then murmured, “Most parents just make up stuff when their children ask about things they don’t know about. We…we want them to believe that we know everything. With you?” A small smile washed across Aaron’s face and he huffed out a quiet laugh. “You know so much…You’re always so honest with him. You’re so patient…” Aaron met his gaze. “Thank you for indulging Jack.”

It took two tries for him to say, “You’re welcome.” Spencer then tacked on, “Thank you for inviting me over tonight.”

“Our pleasure,” Aaron replied, his tone warm yet distinctly formal, as he opened the door and stepped aside. “Good night, Spencer.”

Spencer knew better than to expect anything more. That gesture before? It was just a simple thank you. Those comments? Aaron voicing his doubts about his ability to take care of his son. Nothing more. Nothing less.

 _Time._

 _You were the one who offered it to him,_ his mind chided. _Time to sort things out. Time for Aaron to figure out what he wants. You were trying to be selfless instead of selfish…yet you’re longing…_

“Good night,” Spencer said, fighting the disappointment. He nodded and he made his way down the hall.

“Oh, and Spence?” Aaron called out quietly. Spencer looked over his shoulder. Aaron’s smile was genuine, affectionate. One that Spencer hadn’t seen in months. “Jack’s right. You are awesome.” Aaron went back inside his apartment and closed the door.

Spencer stared at the door, breath caught in his chest.

 _Time,_ he told himself. _Time._

***///***

It took three tries for Spencer to fish his cell phone out of his pocket. The pain surging in his knee prompted him to snarl, “What?”

There was a long pause and then Hotch’s very concerned voice asking, “Spence, what’s wrong?”

He groaned as he glared at the half-gallon plastic jug of milk leaking from where it split from hitting the edge of the sidewalk. The rest of his groceries were getting soaked, so he reached forward and tried to remove the items from the bag.

“Spence?” Hotch prompted, his worry clear in his tone.

“My physical therapist is a sadist who is paid to indulge in his fantasies,” he spat, knowing he shouldn’t take his anger out on someone, but damn it, he _hurt_. “Wall squats with a soccer ball are his preferred method of torture. When he released me this afternoon, I swear he took pleasure in me limping out of the office.”

“Where are you now?”

“Sitting on my ass on the sidewalk outside my apartment building and wondering which neighbor is going to bitch about the spilled milk,” Spencer groused as he examined the casualties. “Damn. The bread is ruined.”

“You fell? Answering the phone?”

“No. I fell and _then_ answered the phone.”

“Are you hurt?” Hotch asked.

“Besides my pride? No.” Spencer grabbed his cane and started to get up. “Can we please not discuss my clumsiness?” He let out a sigh and then felt guilty. “I’m sorry, Hotch. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He picked up the bag with the busted milk container and soggy items as he stood, his phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. “Do we have a case?”

“No. I, ah…just…it can wait until later.”

“Look, Hotch, you don’t just call to call, okay?”

“It can wait,” the other man’s voice was now firm with the edge of authority that meant the matter was closed.

Spencer sighed as he began hobbling towards the main doors. “Okay, but don’t you dare use this as an excuse to keep me out of the field.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” came the amused reply. “We’ll talk later,” Hotch told him and then hung up.

Once inside his apartment, Spencer tossed the ruined groceries, changed out of his stained trousers, and then pulled out two ice packs for his knee. Therapy had gone badly for a variety of reasons; the sessions were always the toughest after returning from a case. The admonishments that he wasn’t keeping up with his exercises were especially grating because he did try his best given the circumstances.

He sprawled out on the couch with his knee iced and propped. Spencer was hungry, but he didn’t want to deal with making dinner even if it was just opening up a can a soup and heating it in the microwave. He reached for his laptop instead—the ice was finally starting to help—and booted it up. Screw the fifteen-minute rule for ice on his knee. The more it numbed the damn thing, the better.

It wasn’t as if he could take “the good drugs.”

He began making edits on his latest philosophy paper. Concentrating on that, he knew he would be able to tune out the pain in his knee and also calm his nerves. Morgan thought he was out of his mind for saying that paperwork was meditative, but for Spencer, it was one of the few things almost guaranteed to calm him down.

A knock on the door startled him. He glanced at the time on the corner of his laptop screen and was surprised that over an hour had passed. Spencer briefly debated ignoring his visitor, but realized that it was probably one of his neighbors since visitors had to call to be let in. He moved the ice packs and laptop down to the floor, got his cane, automatically checked his hip holster for his gun (a paranoia that still hadn’t gone away yet), and went to the door. When he looked through the peephole, his mouth dropped open.

 _Hotch._

Yet any thrill over the fact that Hotch had come over for an impromptu visit quickly turned sour as Spencer realized why the man had come over. Yes, Spencer was the youngest of the team. Yes, he was the one most likely to get into trouble. But the Team’s tendency to mother him was annoying, even if they did have the best intentions.

Even Hotch.

Spencer opened the door, knowing that he was failing to hide his perturbed expression by the way Hotch frowned briefly. Hotch was holding a plastic bag filled with groceries and next to him, Jack had a smaller one that wasn’t as full.

Then, the other man said somewhat sheepishly, “We were in the neighborhood.”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t help teasing, “That’s quite a big neighborhood.”

“Urban sprawl,” said with such dry nonchalance, Spencer found himself snorting in amusement. He opened the door all the way and gestured them in. Jack let go of his father’s hand and charged inside. As Hotch passed by, he assured him, “We won’t stay long.”

Guilt hit full force, because although Spencer wasn’t a parent, he understood the challenges of packing up a child for a car trip. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just been a bad day.”

“It’s okay.” Hotch offered a small smile and then lightly touched Spencer’s upper arm. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll put these away.”

He caught sight of what was in the bag: a half loaf of bread and a half gallon of milk. There were other things, but they were obscured by the bread. Spencer blushed at the thoughtfulness of it. “Thank you.”

Just as he reached the couch, the tendon in his knee popped and he gasped at the sudden sharp pain. He dropped down on the cushions, biting his lips together so he wouldn’t shout profanity.

“Do you need more ice?” Aaron asked. Spencer opened his eyes and watched as the other man bent and picked up the two discarded packs. “Are there more in the freezer?”

“No. I…ah…” He could feel his cheeks warming as he admitted, “I actually iced it too much.”

Aaron inspected the two packs in his hands. “These aren’t the ones that you can put in the microwave as well?”

“No.”

“Where do you keep the warm packs, then? Under the sink in the bathroom?”

“Aaron, I’m okay. It just happens sometimes.”

Aaron hitched an eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to argue. Then Jack darted up to them holding a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream. “Daddy says you were hurt, so we brought ice cream to make it better. And we also have syrup and cherries and everything for sundaes!”

Spencer stared at Jack. He blinked a few times and then looked up to Aaron. It was Aaron’s turn to blush shyly, just like those times before the Attack when…

It took a few tries, but Spencer was finally able to say, “Your dad is right. Ice cream sundaes make everything better.”

“Awesome!” Jack shouted.

“Inside voice, Jack,” Aaron reminded him. He paused and then said softly to Spencer, “We don’t have to stay. We can go.”

Spencer couldn’t help the grin blossoming on his face. “Your son promises me ice cream sundaes and now you want to leave? Do you seriously want me to explain the origins of the phrase ‘Indian Giver’?”

“I’ll take a pass.” Aaron held his hands up in surrender. His smile was warm and affectionate. He touched Jack’s shoulder. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s go make Spencer a special sundae. Then he can tell you all about how rhinoceroses are really dinosaurs.”

“Yay!” Jack cheered and then dashed off to the kitchen.

“They’re so totally not! Rhinoceroses are mammals,” Spencer protested and then stared at Aaron. “Dinosaurs are reptiles.”

Aaron shrugged with mock innocence. “Really?”

He narrowed his eyes. “This is a ploy to give me laryngitis, isn’t it?”

That earned an outright laugh from Aaron. “If I wanted that, I wouldn’t be offering you ice cream now would I?” He winked, then sauntered back to the kitchen and picked Jack up, pulling out a stool and setting the boy down on it. He smiled at his son. “I know where Spencer keeps the crunchy peanut butter. I’ll show you how to make chocolate peanut butter sauce.”

“Awesome!”

Five minutes later, Jack was sitting on the floor with his bowl on the coffee table ‘just like Aunt Jessie lets me.’ The comment earned an eye roll from Aaron, who settled on the couch next to Spencer. It was an unexpected invasion of personal space yet triggered the memory of one rainy Sunday afternoon when lunch had consisted of sundaes because that was all that was edible at Spencer’s apartment. He found himself smiling at the memory and the lecture he’d given over the sauce-to-ice cream ratio, the proportions of the ‘perfect’ sundae bite, and how maraschino cherries could cleanse the palate. Then, he looked at the contents of the bowl.

One and a half scoops of vanilla ice cream, chocolate peanut butter sauce drizzled around the sides but not on top of the ice cream, a light sprinkling of crushed peanuts, and topped off with three sliced cherries. No whipped cream because Spencer abhorred the stuff that came out of a can.

 _He remembered._

“Spencer, are rhinos really dinosaurs?” Jack suddenly asked.

Spencer continued to stare at the bowl, voice temporarily refusing to cooperate, as other patterns began clicking in his mind. The most prominent was the use of his first name, shortened to the affectionate ‘Spence’ when Aaron addressed him directly but his full first name when Aaron referred to him when talking to Jack.

“Spence?” Aaron’s voice broke in as he gently touched Spencer’s upper arm.

He couldn’t stop staring at the sundae as his mind raced. _Is Aaron…courting me?_ Aaron had a sophisticated, romantic side that had slowly emerged in their relationship, and the dinner on Saturday plus what happened tonight had some of the earmarks of Aaron’s past efforts. Yet now, Jack was a full-time part of the picture. _Is Aaron trying to get me used to Jack and vice versa?_ He shivered at the thought. A hand settled lightly on his.

Spencer jerked his gaze up to meet Aaron’s concerned one. Immediately, he began spouting out facts about rhinoceroses followed by the differences between mammals and reptiles. Spencer spoke rapidly, never breaking eye contact with Aaron. He knew he was shaking and knew that it worried Aaron; the other man frowned slightly. Then, Spencer felt a light squeeze on his wrist and he snapped his mouth shut.

“Breathe,” Aaron said softly.

“Rhinoceroses aren’t dinosaurs,” Spencer concluded as he addressed Jack, but kept his gaze locked on Aaron. “Your dad was just…teasing?” He knew he squeaked out the last word and could feel himself turn scarlet.

“Only about the rhinos,” Aaron assured him as his lips curved up to a gentle smile. “Not about the ice cream.”

His breath caught in his chest. He forced himself to exhale slowly as the implications of just what Aaron was saying shook him to his core.

Then Aaron said, “You should eat your sundae before it all melts.”

“But if it melts, you can have ice cream soup!” Jack declared loudly.

“Inside voice.” But it was Spencer who said it, not Aaron.

That won a brilliant smile from Aaron, who then tapped the side of his bowl. “If you don’t start on it soon, you’re risking upsetting the ratio of liquids to solids, Spence.”

Spencer nodded faintly and picked up his spoon.

***///***Sometime between Buzz Lightyear racing into the pizza parlor and Buzz realizing that he was a toy, Jack fell asleep. Clearly the boy was used to having the entire couch to himself by the way he had his head in Aaron’s lap and stretched out, his feet pushing against Spencer’s thigh. Spencer hadn’t minded, though, because once Jack had gotten settled, Aaron draped his arm across the back of the couch, his fingertips barely resting on Spencer’s shoulder. They stayed like that until Aaron decided to take Jack to bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron pick up the remote and turn off the DVD. He watched as Aaron maneuvered himself off the couch without waking Jack, picked the boy up, and carried him to his room. It wasn’t especially late—nine fifteen on a Wednesday—and even though the Team had spent the last week and a half in the office, it didn’t mean that the workload was any less. Sometimes, consultations were _more_ mentally draining because they weren’t dashing around from crime scenes to the morgue to the police station.

Spencer could hear Aaron rustling around and he looked over his shoulder. The door to Jack’s bedroom was opened the usual few inches. Aaron turned off the lights in the kitchen, leaving only the dim illumination from the wall sconces on either side of the television and the glow from the television itself. It was…intimate.

He could feel his pulse speeding up, his breath quickening. Spencer told himself that he was reading too much into Aaron’s actions, that they weren’t going to do something as silly as make out on Aaron’s couch. Then, Aaron rounded the end table and sat down right next to him, just like he had at Spencer’s apartment. There were no bowls of ice cream as a distraction this time. Spencer sucked in a breath and involuntarily clutched the armrest.

Aaron turned to face him, his voice quiet. He reached forward and gently traced Spencer’s jaw with his fingertips. “Is this okay?”

Spencer closed his eyes, licked his lips, and whispered, “It’s more than okay, Aaron.”

He could feel the brush of a calloused thumb along his throat and smell the sweet-sour breath from iced tea and popcorn. Spencer wasn’t sure which one of them was trembling more, but he leaned forward nonetheless. Yes, Aaron had to be the one who made the first move, but Spencer wasn’t going to make it that difficult.

The kiss was dry, chaste. Shy. Brief. Electric.

An echo of their first kiss, when Spencer had pushed Aaron against the wall of Aaron's home and pressed his lips to Aaron’s. The first time had been Spencer asserting himself in a way that stated he wasn’t joking around, and this was something he had been thinking about. He remembered stepping back, stunned that Aaron had surrendered to him so quickly, but still able to demand, “Tell me if I’m wrong.”

This time? It was…romantic.

Aaron pulled away slightly, and for a moment, their rapid breathing was in sync. He then tucked a lock of hair behind Spencer’s ear. “May I kiss you again?”

“Absolutely.”

Aaron smiled one of those rare, brilliant smiles. He leaned in for a second kiss, and it was as chaste and cautious as the first.

It was sexy as hell.

It also made Spencer rock hard. He fought the urge to straddle Aaron’s lap, to grind down and to deliver his own not-so-innocent kiss. He fought the urge to shimmy to the floor, kneel between Aaron’s legs despite his injury, and suck Aaron’s cock while he jerked off. How long had it been? But Spencer didn’t. He gripped the armrest and sofa cushions tightly so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch.

“You’re shaking,” Aaron said, sounding confused as he moved away.

Then, he realized that Aaron might have interpreted his nervousness and lack of contact as fear. Fear of a man who killed a murderer with his bare hands. His next words were breathless. “If I let go of the couch, I’m likely to maul you in a very un-gentlemanlike manner.”

That earned a huffed laugh. Aaron looked at him through lowered lashes. His voice was barely audible. “Really.”

“Absolutely.” Spencer offered a gentle smile. “Will you kiss me again?”

Aaron nodded slowly and then leaned forward. The third was much like the first two, but ended with Aaron whispering, “I need to take this slow.”

“I know.” Spencer risked lifting his hand to lightly caress Aaron’s cheek. Aaron turned towards it, his eyes closed and his lips barely brushing Spencer’s skin. It was a direct current to his cock and he knew he made some kind of wanton sound, but he didn’t stop the feather-light touches. Fingertips tracing Aaron’s cheekbone, then his temple. Smoothing out the creases in his brow. Rough stubble dragging against the pads of his fingers as he ran them along Aaron’s jaw.

Spencer knew what to do next to get what he desired. Take the lead. Kiss Aaron. Crawl in his lap and lick his throat. Thumb his nipples through the soft cotton of his dress shirt. Align his hips just so that he could press his hard cock against Aaron, remembering how much that turned Aaron on. Reach down and unbuckle Aaron’s belt…

Spencer pulled away, his breathing uneven. His dick ached. It took an epic amount of willpower to say, “It’s late. I should go.”

Aaron opened his eyes and met his gaze. Softly, with that edge of amusement in his voice that Spencer hadn’t heard in a very long time, “Not _that_ slow.”

“If we keep going, I won’t be able to stop,” Spencer confessed and then looked away. “If I stay…I will take you to bed and I will...” He let out a sharp laugh. “I _know_ how to get what I want. But...”

“You think you’ll be taking advantage of me.”

“Yes.” Spencer met his eyes as he said, “I will be.” He heaved out a sigh and shook his head. “After Haley’s funeral, you asked me what I was expecting. I said that I wanted to be your friend, and that hasn’t changed. I also asked for you to give us time, because…because that’s what we needed.” He paused. “Then you…you began doing the little things you used to do, things that give me hope.” Spencer swallowed hard, willing his voice not to break. He closed his eyes. “I want it all back, Aaron. All of it. I want…I want what we had before everything changed like it did.”

Slowly, Spencer opened his eyes and looked at Aaron. Aaron’s eyes were wet, his mouth set in a firm, thin line. His voice was pitched low. “I’m not the same person, Spencer. I will never be that person again.”

“I know.”

“But that’s what you want.”

“What I want is _you_. I want _us_. I want to color dinosaurs with Jack while you make dinner. I want you and Jack to make me sundaes after my physical therapy sessions. I want to watch Looney Tunes and ask you why people think Pepe le Pew is amusing when he has De Clerambault's syndrome for female cats with white strips down their backs.”

Suddenly, Aaron let out a laugh and swore, wiping his eyes as he flung himself back on the couch. “Only you would profile cartoon characters.”

“Like you haven’t,” Spencer fired back as a grin tugged at his lips. “You’re the one who said the Daffy Duck is a narcissist and Yosemite Sam has anger-management issues.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t allow Jack to watch Looney Tunes because it’s full of erotomaniacs and narcissists.”

“I prefer the planetarium,” Spencer replied. “No subliminal messages.” That won another smile.

Aaron stood up and held out his hand towards him. It took two tries for Spencer to get off the couch, tightening his grip on Aaron’s hand as he did. They stood face to face and then Aaron pulled him in to a crushing hug. There was a whispered, “Thank you” in there somewhere as Spencer returned the embrace. He knew Aaron could feel his erection but he was momentarily stunned (disappointed?) that the feeling apparently wasn’t mutual.

Spencer then reminded himself of the side-effects of most anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications. Not being able to ‘get it up’ (he couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘impotent’ ever to describe Aaron) was yet another legacy thanks to Foyet.

Spencer never harbored such hatred for one man in his entire life. It burned stronger than the resentment he felt about his own father. He held Aaron close, breathing slowly until Aaron loosened his hold. Spencer cradled Aaron’s jaw and said softly, “Good night.”

///***////To say the victimology was unnerving was an understatement.

Four white males, all in their early- to mid-forties. Upper-management, suit-wearing workaholics. Divorced. Heights ranging from six-foot to six-foot two and weighing approximately one hundred eighty to two hundred pounds. Caucasian. Dark hair, dark eyes. Physically fit. One was an amateur kick-boxer who placed consistently in tournaments in his age bracket, one had a brown belt in Brazilian jujitsu while another had a black belt, and the last victim was a champion collegiate wrestler who kept up his skills at a local mixed-martial arts gym.

Blitz-attacked as they left their offices well after everyone else in the building had gone home.

All found beaten and strangled to death, their ties used as the ligature.

And Hotch, being typical Hotch, decided to make himself a target once the profile had been solidified. He made the declaration in front of the locals without consulting the Team and then ordered everyone back to the hotel to get some rest.

Of course, Hotch’s plan was met with vehement resistance, but it was done privately because the Team knew that showing any chinks in the armor could undermine their authority with the locals. Morgan and Rossi used the ‘plenty of detectives who could pull off workaholic just fine, damn it’ tactic while JJ and Prentiss played the ‘think of Jack!’ card.

Of course, Hotch went into ‘I am the Unit Chief and my word is law’ mode, effectively shutting the protests down for the evening.

Those four then turned to Reid, who had thus far stayed out of the argument.

Reid couldn’t decide who he wanted to beat with his cane first. Hotch, for deciding that this was the case to reassert his status as alpha male (yet again), or the rest of the team, because apparently Reid still retained the title of ‘the one who can talk sense into Hotch when he won’t listen to Rossi.’

Sure, he was appalled that Hotch was being so stupidly reckless because it wasn’t a split-second decision of, ‘Oh, I’m going to take off after the UnSub without backup because the UnSub bolted.’ No. This was premeditated. Reid also couldn’t compartmentalize the situation like he had done in Phoenix, when Hotch had held that press conference to lure out the cop killer. Too much had passed since then and now.

Too much had been lost.

Way too much had been lost.

And he knew that Hotch was waiting in his hotel room for Reid to show up, to make that final plea of the evening. He knew Hotch already prepared his defense and was itching for that one last argument, to topple that one last domino. It wasn’t a game that Reid was about to play. So, he went down to the front desk and scored eight packages of coffee for his in-room coffeemaker and a sugar dispenser from the hotel’s complimentary breakfast buffet. He also purchased two cans of Red Bull and six packs of peanut butter crackers.

Then, Reid pulled an all-nighter because the one thing almost guaranteed to make Aaron Hotchner back down from a position was cold, hard logic.

At six-thirty the next morning, Reid yawned as he entered the breakfast area, his hair still damp from his shower. Each member of the team sat alone, which wasn’t unusual for early starts like this. Hotch was near the window with a clear view of the dining room and the three entrances, watching. Waiting. Spoiling for the argument that he had been denied last night.

Reid sighed inwardly, poured himself a large glass of orange juice, and then walked directly to Hotch’s table. He pulled out the chair and sat without asking or waiting for permission to do so. Hotch’s shoulders rolled forward slightly. His eyes narrowed with that predatory glint he got when he was about to verbally strike.

Reid set his glass down, dug through his messenger bag, pulled out a map, and placed it between them on the table. There were two triangles, yellow representing where the victims lived and blue where the victims worked; where they overlapped was green which happened to be where the victims were killed. Reid fished out an orange highlighter and uncapped it.

Without so much as a ‘good morning,’ he launched into a concise explanation about the geographical profile of the gyms the victims frequented and its correlation to where the victims lived and worked. He drew as he spoke, coloring in the white areas of the new triangle, the point where the three triangles converged was a funky shade of brown.

Hotch listened, brow furrowed, but didn’t interrupt.

The rest of the Team didn’t join them, even though it was obvious Reid was talking about the case. Once he finished with the map, he recapped his highlighter, dropped it in his bag, and then pulled out his notepad and a pencil. He tore off the top sheet and placed it on top of the map. On the page, he had drawn five columns landscape, each filled with various short-hand symbols. At first, each column looked identical, but two-thirds down, the marks in middle one did not match the other four. As Reid explained what each line represented, Hotch’s left eye began to twitch.

When Reid reached the second to last line, it was clear Hotch had figured out that the middle column represented himself, not the third victim. He seethed in that silent Aaron Hotchner way of seething, which was far more terrifying than the ‘take your lunch money’ version of Aaron Hotchner. Reid finished and set his pencil down.

“This why the strategy from the Phoenix cop killer case won’t work,” Reid concluded. Calm. Assertive. No begging. No pleading. No threats. Just a thorough dismantling of Hotch’s reasons last night for making himself a target. Reid even phrased Hotch’s lack of a mixed-martial arts discipline, something all four victims had in common, in a positive light. “If these victims were cyclists, then we could use your participation in the various marathons around the DC-area to our advantage.”

Still, it was a subordinate nuking a plan Hotch had publicly (and adamantly) committed to last night in front of the locals.

So Hotch went after the only line of argument that Reid really left him. Hotch’s voice was a bit louder than necessary. “You deliberately disobeyed a direct order,” he snapped, referring to the very specific directive of _not_ working the case at the hotel. “And now you’ve compromised the efficiency of the team by pulling an all-nighter.”

A twinge of disappointment ran through Reid, followed by immense regret for what he was about to say. He hoped that later, Hotch would forgive him, that Hotch would understand that this was the only way for him to see past his bull-headed determination.

Reid closed his satchel. He picked up his cane and shifted his weight, ready to stand. He leaned forward, met Hotch’s frosty gaze, and quietly said, “If you hadn’t put yourself above the Team, I wouldn’t have had to.”

He stood carefully, focusing on the set of Aaron’s jaw rather than the hurt that he was sure flashed through the man’s eyes or how Aaron was bending the spoon in his hand. Reid turned away and walked out, knowing that Morgan, Prentiss and JJ would quickly be on his heels once he reached the parking lot. He knew once inside the SUV, he could let out the breath he was holding and allow the shakes to take over. He knew they would ask him what he said, but he dared not repeat it.

The only time Aaron Hotchner had been called a narcissist before was by Spencer in a dingy cabin in rural Georgia. It had been Spencer’s last ditch effort to send the team a clue, because he knew that Hotch would not have dismissed his words as easily as Gideon. His gamble had paid off back then.

He hoped his gamble paid off now.

An hour later, Aaron Hotchner gathered the Team at the conference room in the police station and closed the door. He used the “can’t see the forest for the trees” metaphor as he admitted his error in judgment, and then said it was time to develop a new strategy. He pulled out the map and notebook page from breakfast and gave Reid credit for presenting it to him, although there was a distinct chill as he said it.

Hotch was still clearly pissed, but only those who knew him well could pick it up.

Still, the relief at the table was palpable but no one acknowledged Reid’s gambit until after Hotch had left to update the police chief.

Rossi was the first say anything. “I really don’t know what the hell you said to him, but next time? _You_ ,” he pointed at Reid, “get to be in the same SUV with him. Jesus Christ, I thought I was riding shotgun at a demolition derby.” But the older agent grinned and nodded as if to say, Good job.

Reid offered his lopsided smile as he tolerated Morgan ruffling his hair and Prentiss patting his shoulder. JJ simply mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ but Reid knew that they all realized that he’d basically put everything he had with Hotch on the line. Everything he had been working to repair since Foyet’s attack.

Everything.

It sucked.

He forced himself to focus on the case. Reid would allow himself to be miserable later.

When lunchtime rolled around, Reid was genuinely surprised that Hotch brought him Starbucks. Sure, the man brought some for the rest of the team, but Reid’s was the only one he personally delivered. Hotch then pitched his voice low. “Next time, just tell me I’m being a stubborn jackass.”

Reid glanced over to see that the door was shut, which was probably the only reason why Hotch said anything in the first place.

“Four people told you that,” Reid told him. He knew frustration seeped in to his tone, so he popped the lid off the coffee and took a tentative sip. It was sweetened perfectly.

“You didn’t have to…” Hotch trailed off and tilted his head a little. The unspoken, _You didn’t have to say **that** to get my attention,_ was clear, because if there was one thing that Aaron Hotchner prided himself a little too much on, it was not putting himself above the team.

He glanced up at Hotch’s serious expression. “You went into an UnSub’s house without your Kevlar in Louisville. You chased down a suspect in Oklahoma City without back up.” Reid leaned back in his chair. “Around the bullpen, that’s called ‘pulling a Reid.’” He paused, letting the words sink in. Softly, he added, “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, Aaron, especially us. You need to believe that.”

Hotch’s lips pursed at the use of his first name and he looked away. He flexed his left hand, knuckles popping. “You didn’t have breakfast,” he stated, abruptly changing the subject as he moved towards the door. “Make sure you get some lunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hotch left.

Reid let out a sigh. Then, he glanced at the side of the white cup.

There, in black grease pencil, were the initials DNFW, Hotch’s acronym for ‘do not fuck with’.

Reid let out a laugh, relief coursing through him.

///***//////***///

When Jack begged Spencer to make the dinner plates dance because he was a magician and Spencer said that he couldn’t, Jack clutched Aaron’s pants leg and sobbed.

Horrified that he’d made the boy cry, Spencer tried to reason with him.

It only made it worse.

Spencer became so desperate, he launched into a philosophy discourse more suited for a doctoral candidate than a child as he thought, _Why the hell isn’t Aaron helping me?_

“Please,” Jack pleaded, looking at Spencer with tear-filled eyes and a runny nose.

Spencer finally told him, “I’m not that kind of magician,” mortified because he failed so thoroughly.

“Spence, he’s tired,” Aaron said softly as he bent down and scooped Jack up. He addressed his son directly. “The park _and_ the museum _and_ helping make dinner _and_ a movie?” He wiped Jack’s eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “We did a lot today.”

Apparently, that was code for bedtime, because Jack immediately wailed, “I don’t wanna!”

“Jack, it’s late. It’s time for a bath.”

Jack suddenly pulled away from Aaron, twisted his body, and lunged for Spencer. It startled Aaron and terrified Spencer, who was convinced the boy would overbalance Aaron and crash to the floor. Spencer grabbed the boy by the arms at the same time Aaron seemed to let go. Jack swung a little and then clutched Spencer’s neck, wrapping his legs around Spencer’s torso. Spencer stumbled backwards, his knee twinging at the unexpected movement, and his back hit the edge of the kitchen island.

Spencer looked over Aaron, who had an odd look on his face. The man’s arms were at his sides, his jaw slightly slack. His eyes…Spencer never saw quite that look in the man’s eyes before.

“I don’t wanna,” Jack sobbed into Spencer’s neck.

Spencer was still reeling from the change of events, from Jack being upset that he couldn’t make plates sing and dance— _Damn you, Disney,_ Spencer thought—to being reached for by Jack when the boy didn’t want to do something. Aaron’s silence was telling as well—either he didn’t know what to say, or he was waiting to see how Spencer played out this scenario. It was like a test.

 _You said you wanted this,_ Spencer chided himself, thinking of the night he declared that he wanted to be part of Aaron’s and Jack’s lives. _And here’s your opportunity to prove it._

He quickly sifted through the things he had read regarding parenting and compared it to what he’d witnessed Aaron doing.

Of all the stupid connections for his mind to make, Spencer thought of hostage negotiations. He had a feeling that Aaron wouldn’t be too appreciative of that particular tactic, so he tapped Jack’s chin until the boy looked up at him. “Do you know what bacteria are?”

And that was how Spencer managed to get Jack in the tub, bathed with minimal fuss, dressed in clean pajamas, and in bed. Then, as he tucked Jack in, there was that sense of triumph as Spencer finally— _finally_ —figured out a reasonable explanation as to why, as a magician, he couldn’t anthropomorphize an alarm clock.

“Only wizards like Gandalf can do that,” Spencer told the boy. “And, I’m not a wizard.”

“Who’s Gandalf?” Jack asked.

That was how Jack Hotchner was introduced to J.R.R. Tolkien. Spencer kept his voice low and even despite his enthusiasm about the subject. He sat on the edge of Jack’s bed as he described Hobbits, elves, and dwarves, and the geography of Middle Earth. He explained how Tolkien created several languages to go along with those races.

“Sindarin was the language spoken by the elves.” He closed his eyes and imagined the words as he spoke them, “ _I amar prestar aen, han mathon ne nen, han mathon ne chae a han noston ned 'wilith._ ”

A hand settled on his shoulder, and Spencer looked up to find Aaron standing next to him with a small smile on his face. Aaron nodded toward his son. “He’s been asleep for the past forty minutes.”

Spencer blinked, looked over to the dozing boy, and then glanced at his watch…which wasn’t there. He’d taken it off and put in his pocket when he’d given Jack a bath. Embarrassed that he’d gotten so caught up in his rambling that he didn’t even _notice_ , Spencer shook his head as he stood. He couldn’t even get out a “Sorry” as he brushed past Aaron to leave the bedroom.

As he approached the kitchen, he pulled out his watch and he realized that he’d been talking for almost an hour. Had Aaron stood there the entire time listening? Why hadn’t he interrupted?

It was also then that Spencer noticed that the front of his sweater vest was wet. Idiot, he chided himself. You were so caught up that you even missed that. He shook his head.

Spencer slid his watch back into his pocket and turned when he heard Aaron leave Jack’s bedroom and close the door until it was only open about two inches. Aaron walked up to him, the smile still on his lips. “I’ve never heard you speak Sindarin.”

“It’s not really a useful skill to have in the field,” Spencer replied, still embarrassed that he lost track of time. He gestured towards Jack’s room. “Sorry I got so…”

“You did fine,” Aaron interrupted as he placed a gentle finger against his lips. Aaron’s gaze was heated, a look that Spencer hadn’t seen for a very, very long time. His finger slid from Spencer’s lips across his cheek as he gently cupped his chin, tilting it _just so_.

Spencer’s breath caught as he closed his eyes and leaned forward automatically. What he wasn’t expecting was a passionate, searing kiss. He felt his knees buckle, and he reached out to steady himself against Aaron. He opened his mouth and, when Aaron’s tongue swirled around his, he moaned and clutched Aaron’s arms.

Aaron’s hands moved to the bottom of the vest. He broke the kiss and stated with surprise, “Your sweater’s wet.”

“Happened when I was turning your son into a germophobe,” Spencer tried to make it sound like a quip as he again looked over towards Jack’s bedroom, but knew he failed. He never thought that scaring a child into doing something was beneficial, yet that’s what he had done tonight. “Aaron, I’m really, _really_ sor—”

His words were cut off with another kiss—this one more gentle, yet still hungry. When Aaron pulled away, there was no mistaking the desire sparkling in his eyes. “You did fine,” he repeated and tugged the sweater. “We should get you out of this.”

Spencer sucked in a breath, momentarily stunned by the quiet comment. There were a bunch of different ways to interpret what the man was saying, but the look in Aaron’s eyes and the kisses—Spencer nodded slightly, breathing, “Yes.”

Aaron pulled off the vest, balled it up, and tossed it towards the washer/dryer. Aaron’s fingers settled on the buttons of his dress shirt, which was also damp. Spencer felt the blush sweeping across his cheeks. “I’m not really good at this whole parenting…” but stopped when Aaron hitched an eyebrow. Spencer rolled his eyes and then couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re supposed to shut me up with a kiss.”

“Am I, now?” Aaron teased as he continued unbuttoning Spencer’s shirt.

“Yeah,” he replied, suddenly breathless because this was _not_ Aaron in caretaker mode. This was playful, sexy Aaron whom Spencer honestly thought he might never see again.

Aaron met his gaze as he finished with the buttons. He pulled Spencer forward a little so that now only inches separated them. Spencer could smell the faded cologne and that specific scent that was pure Aaron.

Aaron’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Will you stay tonight?”

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped in his chest because he knew that Aaron meant _in his bed_ not Spencer camping out on the couch like had done that first week after Haley’s murder. He licked his lips a few times and swallowed hard. It was a huge step for Aaron.

Huge.

Yet from the way Aaron leaned forward, crowding into Spencer’s personal space, Spencer knew that things had finally— _finally_ —changed. His response was breathless as he met the man’s gaze.

“Yes.”

The kiss was searing. Possessive. It conveyed Aaron’s passion so clearly, so concisely, that all Spencer could do was whimper, wrap one hand around Aaron’s shoulder and slink the other down to cup Aaron’s ass.

Aaron rolled his hips forward, his hard-on unmistakable. It made Spencer moan and shiver. Aaron then maneuvered them to the master bedroom, closing the door once they were inside. Spencer’s shirt hung open; Aaron kissed down his throat, across his chest, and then lightly bit each nipple.

Spencer had never been especially vocal, but Aaron’s actions elicited a yelp and him clutching at Aaron’s shoulders, panting, “Please, _please_.”

“Shhhhh,” Aaron hushed.

Right.

 _Jack._

Despite being exhausted from a very active day, the boy tended to wake up at unusual noises. The last thing he and Aaron needed was to be walked in on.

Aaron continued to move them towards the bed, his hands dropping to Spencer’s belt. He paused, lips against the side of Spencer’s neck, and it took a split second for Spencer to realize what he was waiting for: permission.

“Yes,” Spencer murmured and was rewarded with another intense kiss. Aaron unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, but then slid his hands up Spencer’s sides and thumbed his nipples. He arched and grabbed Aaron’s waist in order to steady himself. He heard an amused chuckle, low and sexy.

Confident.

It was a sound Spencer sorely missed.

Memories of those last good days flashed through his mind, that weekend when everything happened so perfect, _just right_. Memories that Spencer had firmly locked away because he swore to himself that whenever— _if_ ever—his relationship with Aaron would resume, it could not be based entirely on what they used to have.

Aaron was correct in saying that he could never be that man again. Spencer couldn’t be who he used to be either. Too much had happened. Too much had changed.

The old Spencer would have asserted himself. The old Spencer would have spun them around so that it was Spencer pushing them towards the bed, not Aaron. The old Spencer would have effortlessly stripped Aaron of his clothing, and mapped every inch of the man’s skin with his tongue, lips, and fingers until Aaron was writhing, begging, shooting his load across his belly.

The old Aaron would have automatically relinquished control.

This new Aaron? _This new Aaron has to be in charge,_ Spencer thought.

Then, he felt the side of the bed pressing against the backs of his legs. He could feel his trousers being unzipped and pushed down his legs, leaving him in only his dress shirt, boxers and mismatched socks as he stepped out of the trousers. His shoes were by the front door, which was a habit he picked up from Aaron, since the man preferred being barefoot when at home.

Aaron took a few steps back, his gaze raking over Spencer’s nearly naked body as if taking in every inch of his bared skin. Spencer kept his hands at his sides and jutted his hip forward slightly so that his erection tented his underwear a bit more provocatively. He wanted to reach down and adjust himself. Maybe pull down the waistband so he could stroke his bare cock while Aaron watched, but he refrained.

Instead, he watched as Aaron took off his long-sleeved, burgundy polo, revealing a white tee that clung to his torso. Aaron undid his belt, and unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. They slid down slightly so that the edge of the tee came untucked. He moved forward, sliding one hand behind Spencer’s head and the other down to his ass. He pulled them together, their lips crashing together as he ground himself against Spencer.

Despite his earlier determination not to assert himself, Spencer couldn’t help but push the edge of the jeans past Aaron’s ass, which earned a groan. Then, Aaron moved his hand from the back of Spencer’s head to his shoulder, pressing down lightly. Spencer obeyed the unspoken command, sucking on Aaron’s lower lip, licking down Aaron’s throat, and pressing soft kisses down the center of Aaron’s shirt-clad chest as he sat down on the bed.

Aaron’s jeans were at mid-thigh, exposing pale blue boxers bulging with the man’s erection. Spencer nuzzled the hard cock through the fabric, inhaling the distinct musk. He heard the swallowed groan and smiled as Aaron’s left hand tangled in his hair—not to guide his movements but just _there_. Spencer placed his own hands on the tops of Aaron’s bared thighs, careful and slow, then slid them around to the back of his legs, breaching the hem of the leg holes of the boxers.

Aaron hissed as he rocked slightly, so Spencer mouthed the fabric covering hard flesh, paying careful attention to the wet spot, and savored the salty-sour precum the fabric had absorbed. The noise Aaron made was somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

Spencer tried to tell himself, _careful, easy,_ because he didn’t want to spook Aaron, didn’t want to take control away from him. But he found his self-control rapidly fading. Aaron’s fingers raking his hair. His nose pressed to Aaron’s groin. His lips caressing Aaron’s dick. His hands roaming over Aaron’s firm ass, thumbs lightly drawing up and down his ass crack.

He heard the growled order, “Suck me.”

Spencer shivered as he said, “Yes.”

He didn’t miss Aaron’s full-body shudder. Spencer slid his hands up and hooked his fingers so that he could pull Aaron’s boxers down…down…down…the moment Aaron’s dick popped free of the waistband, Spencer engulfed him, sucking hard and swirling his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” Aaron hissed and yanked on Spencer’s hair.

His nose pressed against Aaron’s wiry pubic hair. He could smell the sweat, the musk, the _everything_ of Aaron. He hummed his appreciation. Aaron jerked hard, briefly choking him, before loosening his grip. His thumb stroked Spencer’s lips around his cock. “So good, so good,” he groaned, spreading his legs apart slightly. “God, so good.”

Spencer continued caressing Aaron’s ass and massaging his scrotum before scraping Aaron’s perineum with his fingernail. Aaron gasped and arched; it was clear he was struggling with keeping quiet. It made Spencer smile to himself, knowing he could still do these things to his…

To his…

To his _lover_.

And, _damn_ , did it feel incredible being able to call Aaron that again. Spencer reached down and began stroking himself, keeping his movements in sync with the way Aaron rocked in to his mouth.

“Need to feel you,” Aaron groaned suddenly as he pulled away. His eyes shone with desire as he stepped out of his pants. He crawled into bed and it was then that Spencer realized the man had already pulled back the covers.

Spencer felt a slight tug on his shoulder so he shimmied up so that he was facing Aaron. H e was still wearing his unbuttoned shirt and boxers, but Aaron immediately began kissing him, hands roaming down Spencer’s ribcage to the waistband. Spencer pushed down his own boxers, kicking them off before pressing his leaking cock against Aaron’s. Aaron rolled his hips and made a needy sound, his movements frantic.

The shirt kept getting tangled around them, so Spencer hooked his leg around Aaron’s and rolled on top of him. He slid his knees up so that their dicks continued to slide against each other. Aaron’s t-shirt began riding up as Spencer continued to move on top of his lover. Once Spencer got his balance right, he broke away from the kiss and sat up, grinding down as he did. He yanked his dress shirt off, closing his eyes briefly as he stretched. Spencer’s left hand settled on the exposed skin of Aaron’s right side, his thumb pressing against his hip.

Spencer swiveled his hips a little before leaned down, intending to capture Aaron’s lips in a searing kiss.

But…

Aaron’s eyes were screwed tightly, his lips pursed. His hands gripped the sheets so hard that his knuckles were white. His breath came in short bursts, his nostrils flaring, and his skin turned pale.

“Aaron?” Spencer asked worriedly as he reached up to cradle his cheek. “Aaron, what’s wrong?”

Spencer wasn’t expected to be violently shoved to the side as Aaron bolted from the bed and into the master bathroom.

The door slammed.

The distinct sound of retching followed.

Spencer immediately went numb, his erection flagging. _What did I do? What happened?_ He frantically searched his memory, going over all the triggers that he knew about.

This was a new one.

He belly twinged.

Spencer stared at the bathroom door, still closed although the toilet was flushed twice. He set his jaw because, while yes what had happened was beyond disastrous, he knew that avoiding it would only cause it to fester.

He knew Aaron. He knew what this would do to Aaron if they didn’t address it.

Spencer sighed.

 _Time,_ he reminded himself. _But it doesn’t always heal all wounds._

He waited for a few minutes, listening, and then realized that Aaron probably wasn’t going to exit the bathroom unless he thought the coast was clear. It was annoying but understandable. Aaron was a proud man. He’d taken a huge step tonight, gave in to his desires and _that_ happened.

So Spencer pushed himself off the bed and gathered their discarded clothes. He put them in the hamper before opening the dresser drawer designated as “his.” He quickly donned the pajamas—long-sleeved button-front shirt and long pants—and let out another sigh.

Just once, he wanted something to be easy.

Unlike the night of Aaron’s first panic attack, Spencer didn’t make coffee and have it ready for a discussion. Instead, he padded through the apartment, checking the alarm system (armed) and locks (secure). He fished out his phone charger, glasses and contact lens case from his messenger bag, picked up his and Aaron’s phones from the sofa table, and turned off all of the lights except for the one over the kitchen stove.

When he returned to the bedroom, Spencer was surprised to find Aaron sitting on the bed, dressed in sweatpants and an undershirt. Aaron stared at the floor, head bent, elbows resting on his knees, and hands clasped in front of him. The tense set of Aaron’s shoulders signaled that the man was ready to be chastised, perhaps even verbally humiliated.

It made Spencer’s heart ache.

It just wasn’t fair.

Spencer walked over, placed Aaron’s phone on the nightstand next to the gun safe, and then walked over to his own side, plugged in his charger and then his phone. He went into the bathroom and removed his contacts. After quickly brushing his teeth and washing his face, he turned off the light and headed out into the bedroom.

Aaron was still sitting there.

Spencer got into bed and pulled his side of the covers up. He briefly debated pulling out the book he knew would be in the nightstand drawer; none of his other belongings had been moved, so it was safe to assume that his book would be there, as well. He then considered just reciting something like he had those days after Haley’s murder.

He ended up staring at the back of Aaron’s head and weighing his options. Spencer took a deep breath and began, “Thirteen months and five days after Georgia, we had that case north of Saginaw. We ended up staying at the firehouse and using it as our base because the police station was under construction and the local motel was being renovated. Do you remember that?”

Spencer fell silent until he saw Aaron nod.

“The last night we were there…we weren’t cleared to fly out until morning…it was a Friday during Lent. The firehouse is famous for the Lenten fish fry. They used fresh fish from the lake, cleaning it themselves. When I walked into the kitchen…all I could smell were the guts.” Spencer paused, knowing he didn’t have to explain the significance of it. “I’d been clean about two months. But that night?” He glanced away and fiddled with the fold of the blanket. “I picked the lock to the EMS supplies, found what I wanted, and shot up in the men’s room.”

Aaron inhaled sharply but remained silent.

Spencer continued, “It was the only time I used while actually in the field. Did you know that once the drugs had settled in, the locals kept telling me how nice it was for me to finally ‘loosen up’ and not sound like a walking encyclopedia?” He wrinkled his nose at the memory. Spencer then let out another breath. “I don’t think less of you. I never will. You have to believe that. I just…I just need to understand what happened tonight. Please.”

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was their breathing. Then, Aaron’s voice broke the silence, his tone quiet, sharp and angry. “He was on top of me when he stabbed me.” Aaron glanced briefly over his shoulder. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Spencer could only nod as he watched Aaron shift until he was lying on his side facing away from Spencer and pulling the covers up to his shoulder. His bedside lamp remained on.

If Spencer Reid could resurrect George Foyet, he would for the sole purpose of beating the man to death a second time.

It just wasn’t _fair._

///***///

 

Spencer was not used to waking up with a body next to him, much less one curled possessively around him. Aaron’s arm was across his chest, fingers latched on the shoulder of his pajamas, and nose buried in Spencer’s hair. It was comforting, of course, to be in such a tight embrace.

The hard on pressed against his ass didn’t hurt either. Spencer felt his own cock twitching as he ran through options for the morning. Should they attempt to have sex given how disastrous last night had been? Would that help Aaron’s confidence? He decided to go for it because if there was one thing he had discovered in those times waking up next to Aaron, Aaron’s demons were usually at bay until the man was fully awake.

So Spencer slowly turned, ignoring the muffled protests of his bedmate, and carefully ran the back of his fingers along the side of Aaron’s face. Aaron leaned in to the touch, brow creasing slightly before his eyes fluttered open. Drowsy, Aaron asked, “Spence?”

He brushed his thumb across Aaron’s lips. He shifted a little so their cocks bumped. “I want you,” Spencer said simply and them moved his hand to Aaron’s waist.

There was a pause—Aaron closed his eyes as he sucked in a breath—and then a small nod.

“May I?” Spencer asked quietly, his thumb lightly stroking the waistband.

“Yes,” Aaron breathed as he moved closer, his own hand gliding down Spencer’s shoulder to his waist.

Slowly, Spencer curled his fingers around Aaron’s hard length, caressing him lightly. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Aaron’s jaw. “I want to take your cock out. I want to stroke us together.”

“Oh, God. _Please_.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but he got Aaron’s boxers off along with his own pajama bottoms and underpants. When he wrapped his hand around Aaron’s cock, Aaron hissed, his hips bucking.

“Please,” Aaron begged. “Oh, God, please.”

“Shhhh,” Spencer hushed as he adjusted his grip, thumbing the head of Aaron’s dick and smearing the precum.

Aaron nodded and then began kissing the side of Spencer’s neck.

The strokes were slow. Firm. A bit awkward because Spencer knew he should have gotten some lube to ease things a bit, but he didn’t want to stop. No. He couldn’t break the delicate mood. Aaron thrust into his fist, his hand firm on Spencer’s hip. The words “Please” and “God yes” breathless whimpers.

Spencer shifted again, getting his own cock into position as he loosened his grip and then pressed himself firmly against Aaron. His own precum aided a little with the harsh friction, but it was going to become quickly uncomfortable.

“Need lube,” Aaron grunted suddenly and then turned enough for his free hand to thump the top of the nightstand, then yank open the drawer and paw through the contents. It took a few seconds before Aaron turned back, hips still rocking against Spencer, the click of the cap echoing in the room.

Cool viscous liquid splashed on their cocks and immediately, the friction turned from uncomfortable to exquisite. Aaron hissed.

Spencer adjusted his grip and maneuvered his other hand so that the head of Aaron’s cock fucked his fist. Aaron moaned, his pace increasing as he began showering Spencer’s neck with kisses.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, hoping that his encouragement wouldn’t set off another trigger. “That’s it.”

He was rewarded with a series of “please” and “oh God” that made him smile. He tightened his grip and twisted his hand the way he remembered Aaron liking it.

“Harder,” Aaron pleaded. “Harder. _Please_. Please. Harder. _Close_.”

Spencer obeyed and increased the pace, Aaron now rolling his hips and clutching Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer knew how close his lover was by the change in breathing. He wasn’t that close to coming, too caught up in making Aaron feel good, in making this _work_ like it should have last night.

“Please. _Please._ Close.”

Spencer watched how Aaron’s face contorted, how his eyes squeezed shut and his breathing became irregular. He picked his moment. He said, “Come for me.”

Suddenly, Aaron’s entire body jerked hard and Spencer could feel the warm spurts shooting into his fist. Aaron’s mouth dropped open. Tears ran from his closed eyes. He made a high pitched sound as Spencer milked his cock, Spencer determined to wring every last sensation out of Aaron until it became too much.

Aaron stopped moving. He pressed his face against the side of Spencer’s neck. His hand snaked down pushed Spencer’s away from his softening cock and Spencer’s still rock hard dick. He panted from the sex high, mouth moving as if trying to kiss but not quite succeeding.

Spencer could help but smile to himself, even if his own dick ached because it needed some attention.

After a few moments, Aaron fumbled a bit as he grasped Spencer’s length. There was surprise in his voice as he said, “You didn’t come.”

“It’s okay.”

Aaron shook his head. “It’s not okay.”

“Then get me off.”

There was a pause and then Aaron said wickedly, “But I though you said it was okay.”

“I lied.”

Aaron let out a light laugh. “I’ve missed you, Spencer Reid.”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve missed...” but before he could finish his sentence, Aaron began stroking his cock with quick efficiency, the rhythm and method making Spencer arch into the touch.

It had been too long.

Way too long.

There wasn’t much of a build up. The orgasm just _hit_ , and thankfully Aaron had enough sense to kiss him so his shout wouldn’t wake Jack up.

It was going to be weird having quiet sex.

But Spencer didn’t care.

Sweaty.

Sticky.

Curled up next to his lover—and God, Spencer relished the use of the word ‘lover’ again…Curled up next to his lover, he knew that they truly were back on track.

Finally.

 _Finally._

///***/// Finis ///***///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS TO: Cmali for giving me the courage to continue on this. To Lady_of_scarlet for hand-holding and betaing the story.
> 
> RANDOM COMMENTS: Yes, I have made garum from scratch. I’ll stick to Lee & Perins, thank you very much.


	13. A Bit of Bosch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s experiences with his Grandmom Brooks are far from ideal, but when Jack starts sending drawings to Grammy Reid, it’s clear to Aaron and Spencer that their son desperately wants to meet her. Will Jack’s experiences with Grammy Reid be the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is set in the "Triggers & Ties" universe, it's a stand alone from the other stories.
> 
> TIMELINE: Season 6, prior to “Lauren”
> 
> COMMENTS: Unbetaed. Dedicated to LastCrazyHorn and GenerationXHero, because we all want grandparents who love us unconditionally. Inspired by a former coworker who made me look a child's artwork in a whole new way. Thanks to Daylyn for the most awesome conversation about Hotch and law school the universe has ever witnessed, and for the wonderful corrections to this fic:)
> 
> Admittedly, I'm not especially happy with this for a variety of reasons but I made a promise to myself to just post things and stop obsessing. If it sucks, people will tell me. Hopefully, constructively…

############

 _**“A child needs a grandparent, anybody's grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world.” –Charles and Ann Morse** _

############

Spencer has been writing his mother since the day he left for Cal-Tech. Every day that he can, he sits down with his Mont Blanc pen that she gave him for his high school graduation and the same plain cream-colored linen stationary he’s been using for years. In the upper left corner, he writes the date in the European format (date first, month second, year third) because that’s what his mother prefers. It’s followed by the salutation— _Dear Mom_ —on the right hand side. He indents each paragraph. He’s careful with his penmanship—Diana Reid has always been a stickler for legible cursive—and he’s thoughtful about what he commits to paper.

Crossed out words have a tendency to set his mother off, even on a good day.

Writing letters is a habit. Spencer really doesn’t think much of it. There’s never a specific time when he writes, but it’s usually in the evenings after dinner. He fixes his coffee, which is heavy on the cream but light on the sugar (which would shock his coworkers but not Aaron), and sits down with his pen and paper, organizing his thoughts to a cohesive narrative.

Tonight, he’s at the communal desk in Aaron’s … in _their_ home. Spencer is still adjusting to the whole ‘moving in with Aaron and Jack’ although this is the sixty-seventh night that they have cohabitated.

 _Cohabitate._ He laughs to himself about his own wording. _So clinical. So … impersonal._ His relationship with the Hotchner men is anything but impersonal.

Spencer loves Aaron. Aaron loves Spencer. They both love Jack. Jack calls Aaron “Daddy” and Spencer by his first name, although Jack will proudly declare that he has two dads.

Diana Reid knows all of this. Spencer is dutiful and honest about his relationship with Aaron, although he has never really committed it to paper. He told his mother in person about Aaron and Jack. When he did, Aaron was there to meet her as Spencer’s lover, not as Spencer’s boss. Diana then insisted on speaking with Aaron alone, with that edge to her voice that worried him but Aaron seemed nonplussed about.

Then again, Aaron already had experience meeting the in-laws.

Whatever his mother and Aaron talked about, neither disclosed. The few times Spencer presses his lover about the conversation, all Aaron says is, “It was a conversation between me and your mother” in tone that conveys he will not discuss it further. Spencer knows his mother will never speak of it.

It can't be anything too bad, else Aaron would have surely said something. Maybe it was something as mild as, "I'll scratch your eyes out," which is his mother's usual threat.

There are rare occasions that his mother writes back, and after Aaron was introduced as Spencer’s lover, there’s always a letter addressed to “Aaron Hotchner, Esquire” sealed in a separate envelope. “Esquire” is an honorific that Aaron could use because he keeps his Virginia bar credentials active, but he doesn’t; “SSA” is the designation that Aaron prefers. Still, Aaron takes the envelope, blushes a little, and reads it while sitting next to Spencer. When he’s finished, he wordlessly offers it to Spencer, but Spencer (despite his curiosity) declines.

He knows that if it is something important, Aaron will share, such as his mother’s specific request that Jack should address her as Grammy. Spencer knows that if his mother intended for the letter to be read by him as well, she would address it to both of them. The fact that his mother writes to Aaron separately is a yet another indication of her acceptance; the way she writes Aaron’s name indicates affection as well.

There are some days Spencer wishes he could turn the profiler part of himself off, especially when automatically analyzing the swoops and the slants to determine what mood she was in when she wrote.

For tonight’s letter to her, Spencer references Mark Twain since their case involved four college-age girls whose bodies were found twelve-feet deep along the banks of the Mississippi near Hannibal, Missouri. It’s not so much an obscure reference, but the connection of the name and the river depth was one that few would get right away. Samuel Langhorne Clemens took his pseudonym from his days as a river boat pilot; “mark twain” meant that it was safe to navigate. Spencer does not write directly about the case, just that they visited Hannibal, Missouri as part of their investigation and he wishes he would have had more time in the city to visit the historic landmarks.

He’s so engrossed in his letter, the precise strokes of the pen and the perfection of his cursive, that he doesn’t notice that Jack has crept up beside him, silent and wide-eyed. It’s only when Spencer sets the pen to the side and cracks his knuckles—he has a habit of holding the pen too tight—that Jack speaks up.

“Whatcha doin’ Spencer?”

Spencer jumps a little, still not used to Jack just _appearing_. It’s a gift that Jack obviously inherited from Aaron: the ability to sneak up on someone without anyone noticing.

Aaron calls from the couch, “Jack, why don’t you come here? Spencer is busy right now.”

Jack’s expression falls from bright curiosity to a despondent pout. There are rules in their new home; Jack has to knock and ask before he enters Aaron’s or Spencer’s offices because they tend to bring work home with them. Yet Spencer is at the communal desk, the one that is between the kitchen and the family room, because the paint is still drying in his own office. This location is fair game according to the rules, so Spencer feels a bit guilty about the reprimand, no matter how slight.

“I’m writing a letter,” Spencer says instead. Jack’s gaze darts from where his father is sitting on the couch back to Spencer. Clearly, the child is confused, so Spencer offers up a warm smile. “It’s okay that you asked.”

Because, really, it is.

“Who’re writin’?”

Spencer has no clue where Jack’s accent comes from; it’s a Virginian drawl with an occasional Maryland twang and sounds nothing like Aaron. Maybe it’s just how children speak; they mimic what they hear and Jack’s around a lot of native Virginians in school. The only time Aaron’s native accent bleeds through is when he’s exceptionally tired, half-awake, or uses certain colloquialisms.

Jack’s question makes Spencer pause. Aaron knows the answer, yet he’s making no move from the couch to come and explain to Jack. It’s a predicament in which Aaron’s clearly saying, _You brought it up, you explain it._

"I'm writing my mom."

Jack knows that Diana Reid is sick. They used nearly the same analogy for Spencer’s mother as they had done for Grandmom Brooks. Grammy Reid—and, _man_ , is it strange to refer to his mother that way—Grammy is in a hospital in Las Vegas, which is very far away, and she can’t be visited often nor can she travel to see them because she’s sick.

It’s a simplistic explanation, but one that Jack accepts.

They rarely talk about Grammy.

Jack’s experiences with Grandmom Brooks obviously taught him better. Mary Catharine Brooks is a mean-spirited, self-centered woman. Granted, the lung cancer that ravaged her body took a toll on her emotionally, of course. But from the little that Spencer has observed personally (Mary Catharine dismissed him with a flick of her wrist before Aaron could explain that he wasn’t a “doctor” doctor) and the rare times Jessica vented in his presence … Mary Catharine Brooks was narcissistic to begin with; her illness only exacerbated it.

So when Jack showed up with his “bestest drawing for Grandmom” and Mary Catharine ruthlessly dismissed his efforts, using the words “pathetic” and “lame” and “worthless,” Jessica and Aaron went into damage control mode. Jack has Aaron’s stoicism when his feelings are hurt, so the boy went over to a corner of the room, sat down, and refused to talk to anyone.

When they got home, Jack immediately ran to Spencer, and only then did he cry. Spencer struggled with keeping his own anger out of his voice as Jack sobbed that he didn’t understand what he did wrong. Spencer doesn't like to gloss over things like that, to make up some bullshit excuse in order to maintain an adult's public image. He supposes he gets that from his mother, who always insisted on treating him like an adult because he understood. There are days, though, when he wishes that she hadn't been so … blunt.

It was why he explained how medications made people "not be themselves. Like when you’re really really tired and you say things to you don’t really mean." Except that Spencer knows Mary Catharine means all those spiteful things.

It was the last time Jack visited Mary Catharine.

Spencer knows that his own mother will never intentionally be cruel to Jack, that she will love him and spoil him and to all the things that a grandmother is supposed to do … but she has to be having a good day and lately, those have been fewer and fewer. Diana has expressed that she wants to eventually meet Jack, but there’s a hesitation. Spencer really doesn’t want to explain to Jack why Grammy doesn’t know who he is, why Grammy is lecturing an empty room, and why no one can sit in the chair to her left because it’s reserved for Sir Thomas Malory.

He has a hard enough time with that himself.

Quietly, oh so quietly, Jack asks, “Can I draw her a picture?” although it comes out as, _Canna-draw-er-uh-pik-shure?_

Spencer can see Aaron twitch, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the request or Jack’s accent. Still, he offers another smile and says, “Of course. What will you draw?”

Jack thinks for a long moment, brow furrowed just like Aaron does when he has to make a decision. Shyly, he asks, “Can I draw us? Me and Daddy and you and Aunt Jessie?”

Spencer’s heart aches, because he remembers the day Jack came home after a visit with Grandmom Brooks, when his drawing of his family was cruelly dismissed as immoral and the work of the Devil. Jack refused to draw for three days, and when he finally did, Grandmom Brooks no longer appeared in his works.

“Of course,” Spencer tells him.

“Okay,” Jack says and dashes off to his room.

Ten minutes later, Jack charges out with a crayon drawing clutched tightly in his fist. Jack presents it proudly to Spencer, explaining the figures with excitement. He points to the stick figure on the side, surrounded by bright colors and rainbow that does not conform to ROYGBIV. “And that’s Grammy and the sun is shining for her so she can get better!”

Aaron wanders over from the couch as Spencer accepts the drawing. Jack squirms as he waits for the verdict on his efforts. Aaron says, “It’s very nice, Jack. You used a lot of colors.”

“Colors are happy!” Jack declares. "And I want Grammy to be happy."

The statement catches Spencer off-guard. It takes a few seconds for him to recover, because this outpouring of affection for a woman that Jack has never met is overwhelming. He clears his throat and offers his best smile. "You're very kind, Jack. This is very thoughtful of you."

Jack takes a deep breath and then addresses Spencer directly, “Will Grammy like it?”

 _Hello, loaded question._

“I’ll ask her in my letter, Jack,” he says lamely, because really, it’s the most he can do. “But Grammy is sick so she may not be able to tell me right away.”

“Okay.”

Spencer blinks. “Okay?” because he's ready for the young boy to interrogate him. Apparently Jack has picked up that habit from him.

“Okay.” Jack nods firmly and looks up at his father. "Will you play dinosaurs with me?"

"I would love to play dinosaurs with you, Jack," Aaron says and then growls out a "Rarhr!" He scoops up their son, who shrieks delightedly as Aaron tickles him, and both Hotchner men take off toward the family room.

"I'm a T-Rex!" Jack announces.

Aaron cheerfully fires back, "Well, then. I'm a Gigantosaurus!" They go back and forth naming different species.

At the desk, Spencer sits and stares at the drawing.

He's proud. Damn, he's proud.

########

The following night, Spencer begins writing his mother at the communal desk—the noise from the television and his family soothing—and Jack is at his elbow.

“You write her every day?” Jack asks.

“Yes, because I can’t visit her every day,” Spencer replies.

“But Aunt Jessie and Daddy don’t visit Grandmom Brooks every day.”

“Well, they’re respecting Grandmom Brook’s wishes. She doesn’t want visitors every day,” Spencer reasons. Aaron’s hand is warm and reassuring on his shoulder.

“Spencer’s right,” Aaron tells their son. “One the days she has treatments, she doesn’t want people there.”

“Does Grammy have treatments?” Jack asked.

“They’re different,” Spencer began, but stopped when Aaron squeezed.

Jack says, “Okay,” and takes off for his room again.

Confused, Spencer briefly stares at the door to Jack’s bedroom.

Aaron kisses him affectionately and then head back over to the couch.

A little later, Jack appears with a drawing. He hands it to Spencer. “This is for Grammy.”

Spencer smiles. He accepts the drawing, immediately dissecting the meanings behind the colors and the proximities of the stick figures. He knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it. “Thank you.”

######

The next four nights, Jack delivers drawings to Spencer.

Spencer thanks him and makes sure Aaron sees them before sliding the page into the envelope with the letter.

Neither comment on the scenes or the obvious meanings behind the colors and the positions of the figures, but it is obvious.

Jack desperately wants to meet Grammy Reid.

All the other kids in school talk about how awesome their grandparents are: the fabulous trips, the late night snacks, and toys that Mommies and :Daddies don't allow but Grandmoms and Granddads do.

All Jack has is a vicious bitch in a nursing home and a crazy granny in a sanitarium.

It really isn't fair.

######

They’re called on a case that keeps them away from home for eleven days. Spencer is unsure of how to explain this to his mother, if she’s now expecting Jack's art tucked in with Spencer’s letters. He supposes he could call Dr. Norman and ask, but doesn’t. It's one of the rare times he would rather be ignorant of his mother's opinion on Jack's efforts, good or bad. He simply includes a line that he’s traveling and Jack isn’t with them.

When he and Aaron get home after the case, there are eleven drawings from Jack waiting on the communal desk. They are all addressed to “Grammy” in Jack’s still-developing handwriting. Jessie doesn’t seem angry, but a bit sad. Spencer knows it isn't because Jack no longer includes Mary Catharine in his artistic efforts. She's the one who insisted that Jack not to visit Mary Catharine any more, stating that no child should be subjected to that treatment. It's confirmation that, while growing up, Jessie bore the brunt of Mary Catharine's disapproval and domineering ways. Spencer supposes Jessie's sadness comes from knowing that his mother has schizophrenia and that Jack will never have "normal" grandparents.

He's not going to ask.

Jessie updates them on the day’s events before she hugs them both. Aaron has already checked in on Jack once, but after Jessie leaves, he and Spencer both go into Jack’s room and stare at the slumbering child. Spencer’s never thought he’d ever be a father-figure to anyone, but this? This feels right.

They exit Jack’s room, closing the door until it’s only open two inches, and begin sorting through the mail on the communal desk. There is a letter addressed to “Aaron Hotchner, Esquire” with the return address from Bennington. There is not one for Spencer.

Aaron opens the letter and pulls out the pages, checking to see if Diana had put one for Spencer in there but she hasn’t. Spencer tries his best not to be jealous as he sits as the desk and goes through the rest of the mail. Aaron is embarrassed and goes over to the couch to read it.

Letters from his mother are rare. Spencer treasures them, because when she writes, her prose is beautiful and reminds him of the woman who read him stories as a child. Not the broken one locked away in a sanitarium.

Aaron returns, eyes damp, and there’s a blush on his cheeks that Spencer is not expecting. The letter is still in his hand as he says, “She’d like to meet Jack.”

Spencer knows he’s scowling because, well, it’s _his_ mother not Aaron’s and he can’t help the irrational jealously he feels. His mother's unconditional acceptance not only of Aaron but of Jack is something that so many children wish for but never receive. He closes his eyes and counts to ten before looking over at his lover, an apology on his lips.

Aaron gives a light nod, indicating that sorry isn't necessary, and places the letter on the desk.

“Your mother … she says …” Aaron gestures towards it but doesn’t finish his sentence. He abruptly heads into the kitchen. It’s late and Spencer hasn’t written his letter yet, so Spencer knows Aaron’s gone in to make coffee for him.

It takes a few moments for Spencer to pick up the letter and read it; after the first paragraph, it’s easy to see why the words affected Aaron so much. While he never writes about Aaron’s insecurities about raising Jack, Spencer has included his own doubts, agonizing over if he could be a good role model and things like that.

The jealousy drains away as he reads his mother’s words.

 _… It is clear my grandson is cherished by his two fathers and his aunt, something that a mother wishes for her children … I wish to meet this remarkable young man in person. I would also like to spend time with his fathers, who have done an exceptional job as his parents …_

Spencer refolds the letter and tucks it back in the envelope. He walks into the kitchen and watches as Aaron fills the carafe with water.

“I know that…” Aaron begins as he turns off the faucet. He goes over the coffee maker and pours the water in. “I know that there are good days and there are bad days and we can’t guarantee that Jack will have a good experience.” He turns, resting his hip against the counter. “I want to say that Jack’s too young, that he won’t understand, but I see his drawings …”

He doesn’t have to say, _You know how much Jack wants to meet her_. They’re both surprised Jack hasn’t outright asked. Then again, Spencer realizes that this is similar to what Jack had done for Mary Catharine. Jack drew pictures to give to Grandmom Brooks; Jessie delivered them and always told Jack how much Mary Catharine loved them. Yet when Jack visited that last time, Mary Catharine … Yeah. Jack is a smart and very observant child. Young, but still aware enough that he doesn’t want his feelings to be hurt again.

“I don’t want to get his hopes up, us show up and she’s having a bad day,” Spencer replies quietly, toeing the floor with the tip of his shoe. “I don’t think he’ll understand why we came out all that way and he can’t meet her. I don’t want him to think she’s rejecting him.” He doesn’t have to say, _Like Mary Catharine did._ “She wouldn’t.”

“I know that,” Aaron says as he closes the distance between them. “But if we’re there … well, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

“Then … you’re okay with …”

“I want him to meet her," Aaron tells him firmly, softly. "He needs to. We’ll just find a way to make it work.”

And Spencer knows they will.

They always do.

#########

It takes five months until they’re finally able to wrangle a four-day weekend. Jack continues to draw pictures for Grammy on the nights that they’re home, but he’s forgetful when Aaron and Spencer aren’t there. Spencer wonders if it’s better that way, because eventually Jack will grow out of coloring. There are no additional letters from Diana Reid addressed to any of the family, although Spencer has been expecting one for Jack to show up sometime soon.

Although they’ve painstaking explained that Grammy Reid may not be able to see them, that her doctor had to say it was okay after they arrived, neither is sure that Jack fully comprehends it. Doctor Norman has been encouraging in his reports, saying that the pending visit had given something for Diana to focus on and she has been doing very well.

Spencer hopes it lasts long enough to get one good hour. Aaron’s outrageously optimistic, hoping for a day.

The flight from DC to Vegas is tedious; flying commercial always is. At first, Jack has a hard time sitting still and asks repeatedly (and loudly) why they didn’t take “Daddy’s work jet” to Vegas. Most of the passengers chuckle while one or two roll their eyes. Once they hit the ten-thousand feet mark, Aaron pulls out his personal laptop and queues up a movie for Jack. The headphones are a little large but Jack doesn’t complain. An hour into the flight, Jack’s curled up against Aaron and sleeping soundly. Spencer listens to the audio book he downloaded as he tries his best not to fidget.

He’s nervous.

He’s beyond nervous.

Aaron’s hand settles on his and squeezes gently. “We’ll make it work,” Aaron tells him.

And just like that night in the kitchen, Spencer knows they will.

They always do.

###########

By the time they deplane and pick up their rental car, it’s late in the afternoon. Their hotel isn’t on the Strip, but closer to Bennington. Still, they head out to the Strip for dinner, stopping by the Bellagio so that Jack and Aaron can watch the synchronized fountains, the MGM Grand so Jack can see the lion habitat indoors, and finally to the Paris Hotel to go to the top of the half-scale Eiffel Tower replica. The view is stunning, especially at dusk, which is why tickets are more expensive in the evening.

Jack is fascinated and asks nonstop questions. Spencer points out the usual landmarks and, when Jack asks where Grammy lives, he dutifully pointed in the direction of Bennington. Jack is disappointed that Grammy won't be able to see him waving, but cajoles Aaron into waving as well, just in case Grammy _can_ see them.

Dinner is at a restaurant closer to their hotel; and by the time they get back to the hotel, Jack is ready for bed. It doesn’t take much to get him to change into PJs, brush his teeth, and clamber into the bed he's claimed. Aaron and Jack read a story together followed by Spencer reciting one to them.

With Jack tucked in and fast asleep, Spencer and Aaron go to the private balcony, stretching out on the two lounge chairs which they’ve pushed together. They hold hands as they silently gaze out into the Nevada desert. They don’t get time to do this that often, even at home.

“You’re nervous,” Aaron finally says.

“And you’re not?” Spencer doesn’t have to add, _especially after the fiasco with Mary Catharine_.

“We’re meeting your mother in the gardens, right?” Aaron asks instead. Funny that in all this time, Aaron doesn't refer to her by her first name or Mom; he sticks to "your mother." Spencer wonders if she asked Aaron to address her otherwise but Aaron is uncomfortable doing so.

It's not a question he wants to ask tonight.

Spencer hums an affirmative as he rubs his thumb along the side of Aaron’s hand. They’re not the first family bringing a young child to visit a patient at the sanitarium. They're not the first gay couple doing it either. It just _feels_ that way.

“We’ll do fine,” his lover declares softly. “We’ll do fine.”

#########

After a quick conversation with reception, Aaron and Jack head out to the gardens while Spencer makes his way to his mother’s room. Doctor Norman meets him halfway and assures him that Diana is still having a good day, that she’s been looking forward to this since they announced they were visiting. Unfortunately, he can't stay because of another patient is in need and they're short-staffed today.

Spencer thanks him and shakes his hand. He then walks down the hallway and pauses once he gets close to his mother's door. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a few cleansing breaths. If he’s nervous, his mother could potentially feed off that energy and a good day can quickly turn into a bad day.

It’s happened before.

Setting his shoulders, Spencer takes the finally few steps to her open door, knocks on the frame like he’s supposed to, and calls out, “Mom? It’s ...”

He can’t finish the sentence as his gaze sweeps over her room.

On the wall, facing the door, are six of Jack’s drawings, matted and framed with a small bar light above shining down on them. By her nightstand is another framed drawing and Spencer realizes it’s the first one that Jack sent. He’s momentarily speechless.

Why didn't Dr. Norman didn't tell him about his? _Why?_

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” his mother inquires as she gets up from her reading chair. Spencer can only nod as she closes her journal and sets it on the chair. “I think my artist has a bit of Bosch in him.”

The comment makes Spencer laugh unexpectedly. Hieronymous Bosch was a 15th century Dutch painter known for his exaggerated landscapes and details that included flying fish. In the era of Michelangelo, Raphael, and da Vinci, Bosch’s work was more fantastical. Spencer wants to say Jack's work is more modern, like Mark Bradford or Elizabeth Murray or others like them, but Diana's point of reference has always been the 15th century. The Renaissance. The Classics. So he echoes, "Bosch."

His mother walks up to him and cradles his face. “Fatherhood is good for you.”

The words make him squirm and blush. He still hasn’t completely accepted that Jack considers him his other daddy because there are days when he feels like he has no clue what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Jack and Aaron are good for me,” he says instead.

"And you are good for them." Diana smiles and then releases his face. “Now, where are your husband and my grandson?" She arches an eyebrow at him. "You _did_ bring them with you, didn't you?”

The word ‘husband’ still makes Spencer jolt. He and Aaron aren’t married and never discussed making it official. Yet, his mother’s unconditional acceptance somehow makes it official for Spencer and he can’t quite explain it. Aloud, he tells her, “I thought we’d all meet in the gardens.”

She shakes her head and then gestures to the framed pictures. “Well, then they must stop by here later. My artist needs to sign his work.”

“Mom, Jack hasn’t learned cursive yet.”

“Then he can print his name,” Diana tells him with a stern edge to her voice. “I would like him to sign his works. They are priceless.”

Spencer knows that tone; it is better to go along with it for now instead of arguing. So he offers her his arm, she takes it, and they begin walking. Their conversation is a slight variation on what they normally talk about when he visits on her good days: Spencer is still too thin, his work is dangerous, and she worries about him.

They reach the gardens quicker than Spencer anticipated and round the tall hedge to where Aaron and Jack are waiting. Aaron automatically stands up and Jack mimics his father, but stands slightly in front and watches them with wide, curious eyes.

Confident. Brave. Trying so hard to be still but the excitement is rolling off of him.

 _Stop profiling Jack,_ Spencer orders himself.

Before Spencer or Aaron can do the introductions, Jack takes a step towards Diana. “Are you my Grammy?”

“Are you my artist?” she asks.

“Mom …” Spencer but Jack interrupts.

“I’m Jack,” the boy announces and then points to Aaron. “This is my daddy.” Jack then gestures to Spencer. “This is my other daddy. His name is Spencer.”

“Spencer is my son and your father is my son-in-law,” she tells him. “Do you know what that means?”

Jack concentrates for a moment; his eyes suddenly widen as he beams with joy. “You're my Grammy!”

“And you’re my artist,” she declares as she kneels down.

For a moment, grandmother and grandson look at each other and neither move. It's clear that Jack's a bit confused about why she doesn't call him her grandson. Spencer takes a step forward, ready to explain, but Jack approaches Diana, hand extended just like his father taught him.

"It's a nice to meet you," Jack perfectly enunciates and sounds distinctly like a mimic of Aaron's own flat accent.

"In person," Diana corrects as she shakes Jack's. "It's nice to meet you in person. I already know you from your works."

Jack frowns, trying to understand what she means. Spencer feels guilty, because he knows his mother is used to dealing with a child who can follow along with adult conversations. At least, he likes to remember that as a child Jack's age, he understood what his mother was saying. He spares a glance to Aaron, who is watching the exchange with a keen interest; Aaron's expression is pleasant but his gaze is intense.

Spencer is about to clarify when Jack asks, "What are works?"

"Your art," Diana answers as she smoothes Jack's hair. The boy has cowlick in nearly the same place as his father. "You send me your artwork which, as a collection, can be called works."

Jack's entire demeanor shifts from excited to wary and shy. He stares at the ground. His voice is now soft and hesitant. "Do you like them?"

Diana's expression changes from loving to ferociously protective. Both Spencer and Aaron take a step forward, fearful of how Jack will interpret the sudden swing in her mood. Yet, the moment is brief as the warmth in her expression returns. She taps Jack's chin lightly until he looks up at her. "I treasure them."

A fat tear rolls down Jack's left cheek. Diana thumbs it away as he whispers, "Grandmom Brooks didn't like what I drew."

"Clearly, she is not worthy of your efforts," Diana states decisively as she pulls the boy in for a quick hug. As she releases him, she slowly stands and holds out her hand. "Will you be so kind as to accompany me to the gallery?"

"Gallery?" Jack echoes.

By this time, Aaron is at his son's side. "Ma'am," he begins in his most respectful and polite tone, but it's clear he's unsure of how to continue. Spencer tries to catch is gaze, but Aaron is too focused on Diana and Jack.

Diana lances Aaron with a stare. Her tone is imperious, haughty. "My _grandson_ has sent me his best works. Of _course_ , they are displayed."

Aaron's mouth snaps shut—obviously, he's never faced her wrath before and he doesn't want to risk a blowout in front of Jack—and he finally looks over to Spencer. Spencer mouths, _It's okay,_ and Aaron gives the slightest of nods although his posture is still painfully tense.

"Displayed?" Jack asks with trepidation in his voice.

Spencer watches as his mother gives his son … _oh God, yes, this is my son_ … the kindest and beloved look that he's ever witnessed. Diana says, "My dearest Jack, your artistic efforts are a sight to behold. I am honored to have received such precious works."

Jack blinks.

"Mom …"

"Oh hush, Spencer." She waves him silent. She stands and holds out her hand as she addresses Jack, "Shall we go to the gallery?"

Jack glances over to Aaron, who gives a small nod. Then, the little boy grabs her hand and the two begin walking towards the living quarters of the building. "Tell me about your trip here," Diana says to Jack, and the boy immediately launches into breathless tale about airports, Daddy's jet, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and the Bellagio fountains.

Aaron and Spencer trail a few steps behind, far enough away for Spencer to whisper, "He needs to see this." Spencer surprises himself by not clarifying why; maybe he wants it to have the same impact on Aaron as it did on him.

His lover doesn't reply, just watches as their son chats animatedly with Diana. Spencer knows Aaron is processing his mother's body language and he wants to be annoyed, but he's doing the same thing. The group makes it down the hall without running into any other patients, for which Spencer is thankful.

When they arrive at Diana's room, she pauses ever so slightly. "All great masters have a room dedicated to their works. It's only appropriate that you, my dearest artist, have the same."

Jack doesn't understand; he looks over his shoulder at Spencer to explain but Diana gently ushers him inside. Aaron quickens his pace, which gives Jack the confidence to go inside. Spencer stays a few steps back, listening as his mother makes another reference to Bosch and watching as Aaron reaches the threshold and stops.

Aaron goes stock still before blindly reaching back, searching for Spencer's hand. Spencer takes it and moves to his side. His lover squeezes tightly, the only outward emotion that shows. Aaron's gaze is focused fully on the wall displaying the drawings.

There's acceptance and then there's _acceptance_.

And if Mary Catharine hadn't ruthlessly hurt Jack's feelings those months ago, Spencer is sure that Aaron would be less receptive to the over-the-top showcasing of Jack's preschool artwork.

Jack chatters rapidly, excitedly explaining the rainbows and the sun and Angel Haley ("She's beautiful," Diana murmurs as her fingers grace the yellow figure. "She is so proud of you.") Then, Jack climbs onto the settee to talk about the three top ones and Diana rests her hand on his shoulder as he does. Aaron's grip on Spencer's hand tightens, causing one of Spencer's knuckles to pop.

The scene is picturesque. Spencer has never been a fan of Norman Rockwell, but after today, he knows he'll have a greater appreciation of the man's works.

He'll also have a greater appreciation of Aaron's hand strength.

 _Damn._

He doesn't complain.

Because the pain is keeping him focused and preventing him from hovering close to his mother, worrying that what she says will frighten or confuse Jack.

This whole scene, grandmother doting on grandson, is what he and Aaron hoped for—unconditional acceptance without drama—yet they're both too world-weary to accept it for what it is right away.

Then Spencer hears his mother say, "Of course I have all your works that you have sent me!" He watches as his mother helps Jack hop off the settee before she reaches down and pulls from her nightstand a thick binder that looks like a photo album. Diana leads Jack over to her favorite chair, sets the book to the side, sits down, invites Jack onto her lap (he scrambles up and settles quickly), and then takes the binder. She opens it and asks, "Will you be so kind as to share your insights?"

"Insights?" Jack echoes, confused.

"Like you did for your works in the gallery," Diana explains gently. "I would love to hear your commentary."

Aaron squeezes so hard that Spencer grabs the door frame to keep from dropping to the floor because of the excruciating pain that radiates from his hand. The action causes Aaron to immediately release him and murmur an earnest apology.

"Where are your manners?" Diana suddenly demands, tone and gaze sharp as she stares at the both of them. Jack tenses up as she points to the settee. "Sit down."

"My daddies are being good!" Jack begins to protest.

She hugs Jack closer to her. "Of course they are. But they're making a spectacle! Honestly, Spencer … standing while an artist explains his works! You never done that for Sir Thomas Malory so why are your starting now?"

"We didn't want to interrupt," he says quickly, knowing the excuse is lame, and there's terror that runs through him at the mention of Malory's name. He hopes that Aaron won't press him to explain later, but he has a feeling that Aaron might have figured it out already; Spencer's never explained why he's not a fan of Jack's "invisible friends."

Yet now, Spencer nearly drags Aaron cross the room quickly and they sit down on the settee.

Jack is a bit unsettled, but Diana seems satisfied. "Now … my dearest Jack, where were we?"

"Daddy?" his voice is soft, unsure. He looks wide-eyed at them, clearly torn between the adoration of his grandmother and concern that his father is somehow in trouble.

"It's okay, Jack," Aaron says gently, evenly. "Grammy wants to make sure we're paying proper attention."

"Like when you're in school," Spencer adds.

There's a long pause. Spencer is suddenly worried that the spell has been broken, but then Jack resumes his explanation of whichever drawing they're on. This time when Aaron takes Spencer's hand, it's gentle and soothing.

It's not the first time that Spencer has wondered why nothing in his life has ever been easy. That there are so many landmines that he has to navigate that it's _exhausting_. Yet as he glances from Aaron over to his mother and Jack, he knows that the difficulties make him appreciate the good times even more.

He never takes a good day for granted. He knows Aaron doesn't either.

Spencer's not sure how long they sit there, but Jack grows increasingly antsy with each page turned. Suddenly, Jack bows his head and whispers, "Excuse me, Grammy."

Diana releases him instantly and the boy darts over to Aaron. His father leans forward and asked quietly, "Jack?"

Jack shifts back and forth before grabbing the front of his pants. Their son still hasn't mastered the art of whispering, so his declaration of, "I hafta potty," is louder than intended.

Aaron immediately nods and takes his hand, ushering Jack out with a quick, "Excuse us," before exiting the room.

Diana watches, a small smile gracing her features. "He's a fine young man."

"Thank you."

"Your father will be proud. I hope you find time to visit him while you are here."

Spencer tenses. He knows he's scowling because he was really hoping that she would avoid that subject. He wants to say something petty like, _So he can abandon Jack, too?_ or perhaps, _So he can shower Jack with gifts in an attempt to bribe favoritism?_ While William did try to contact him after the whole Riley Jenkins mess, Spencer pointedly ignores his efforts.

 _Too much, too late._

It's a subject that Aaron never brings up, probably because he knows that Spencer could turn the tables and pick apart Aaron's own less-than-stellar childhood.

"I'll think about it," is all he can offer. He refuses to promise. _Refuses._

"That's all I ask, baby."

She reaches out for him and he moves so that he's kneeling at her side, despite the twinge as he does so. His mother runs a hand through his hair. "This suits you much better."

"Aaron calls it my 'boy band' haircut."

Diana chuckles and then her expression turns dark. "I hope never to meet this Brooks woman. Chastising a child for such a gift. May the plague strike her down."

Spencer doesn't comment, although part of him wants to say, _Already done_. Instead, he looks at the binder in her lap, noting how each page is inside a plastic page protector. He forces himself to push the analysis aside—he knows better than to try to profile his mother—and instead wonders if she keeps his letters in a binder with such loving attention.

He wonders if she shares them with other patients, like she did for Randall Garner.

"I hope they return soon," Diana states as she straightens her sweater. Her gaze goes blank and distant. "I have a class to teach." Spencer closes his eyes, willing the anger and disappointment to stay off his face. "Oh, Spencer," she chides him softly, "you know I can't allow my TA's to lead the class. Remember what happened last time. Honestly. Since when is William Blake a fifteenth century writer?"

"I remember." It's a lie, but he knows better than to argue. He stands and moves towards the door. He'll need to warn Aaron that his mother's mood has changed and hopefully Jack won't throw a tantrum. Spencer spots them making their way back, and Jack pulls away from Aaron and charges down the hallway.

"Spencer! Spencer!"

"Inside voice," he tells him, blocking the door as he holds out his hands to stop Jack from charging into his mother's room.

"They have telly-phones in the potty! Why don't we have telly-phones in the potty?" Jack asks as he runs up to Spencer.

"Ah … Because … your dad and I have cell phones and we don't need them?"

Jack giggles and bounces. By this time, Aaron has caught up and clearly he picks up on Spencer's change in mood.

Spencer meets his lover's gaze. "She has a class to teach."

"Oh." Aaron nods his understanding. "I guess we should be going then."

"We're leaving?" Jack queries and begins to pout. "I wanna stay."

"I know you do, buddy," Aaron tells him, "but Grammy has to teach her class now. We don't want her to be late. That wouldn't be fair to her students. What if Miss Causley were late for your class? You would be sad."

Jack lets out a dramatic sigh and kicks the floor a bit. "I guess."

Spencer turns back into the room, watching as his mother flitters about. Her journal is in one hand and the _Norton Anthology_ is in the other, but clearly she's searching for something. "Mom?" He takes a step forward, knowing that Aaron will keep Jack in the hallway until he signals. "Mom?"

Diana turns and for a moment, she looks utterly confused. "Oh, baby," she rushes forward. "I can't find the chalk!"

"It's in the classroom," Spencer states and hopes—really _hopes_ —that she hasn't forgotten that Aaron and Jack are here.

"Oh, that's right!" She smiles and then kisses him on the cheek. Then, she looks straight at Aaron and admonishes, "You've lost weight."

"Yes, ma'am," Aaron replies neutrally. “It’s good seeing you.” Diana narrows her eyes slightly before waving him off.

"Grammy?"

She looks down and tilts her head. "Oh, my dearest artist, I have to teach my class now."

Spencer lets out a breath. _She recognizes him._ He knows Aaron is relieved as well.

"I can't stay until you're done?" It comes out almost as a whine. "Please?"

Diana shakes her head. "You have to go with your fathers."

"But I wanna stay!"

"Jack," Aaron warns.

"Give me a kiss and a hug," Diana says as she kneels down. Obediently, Jack kisses her cheek and gives her a hug. "You take care of your fathers. That's your job. Make sure they eat. They're far too skinny."

"Okay. Bye, Grammy."

"Good bye, my dearest artist." When she stands, Spencer gives her a light yet awkward hug and Aaron stays still until Diana gives him a light buss on the cheek. She steps past them and walks determinedly down the hallway.

Aaron leans over, his lips close to Spencer's ear. "It was a good visit."

"I know." He's thankful, most definitely. Jack will have a good—maybe a bit confusing—memory of Grammy Reid. Where Mary Catharine fails so spectacularly, Diana makes up for. He catches himself mid-way through calculations on if this may be the last time that Diana will be lucid enough to interact the way she had with Jack.

He hates thinking about it. He really does.

But they had a good day—all of them had a good day.

That is all that Spencer can ask for.

####

The rest of the afternoon is fully of sightseeing and a kid-friendly Vegas show. Jack is worn out, so he goes to bed early. Aaron and Spencer are back out on the balcony, but this time, they share a lounger. It's not the most comfortable arrangement, but Spencer needs the closeness.

Plus, the smell of the desert and the scent of Aaron are very relaxing.

"It was a good visit," Aaron says softly for the eighth time since they've left Bennington.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just uses his fingertip to write equations on Aaron's chest. His lover shifts a little, but doesn't continue the conversation. Ten minutes pass before Spencer lets out a long sigh. "She thinks I should call my dad."

It's Aaron's turn to be silent.

"I don't want to deny Jack a grandparent but …" He shakes his head. "You've met my father. You know how he'll react."

"To which part?" Aaron finally asks. "That you and I are together or that we have a son?" He closes his hand over Spencer's. "He'll probably think you're pushing your sexuality in his face just to get back at him … but he will not take it out on Jack. He'll probably overcompensate in order to prove that he can be a good father given the right circumstances."

Spencer pulls away and stands. "The right circumstances? That's the most pathetic explanation I've heard …" He doesn't finish his sentences because he does not want an argument.

"It's not an excuse for what he did," Aaron retorts. "And we were discussing how he would react, not absolving him for abandoning you and your mother."

He runs a hand through his hair and begins pacing. "I know … I'm … I'm sorry. It's just that …" He gestures wildly as words fail him for a moment. "I think of all that I've been through. All that you've been through. All that Jack's been through. Sure, there were days …" _Months,_ he mentally corrects. _Months …_ "when it seemed as if giving up was the only alternative."

That comment causes Aaron to bolt upright, but Spencer turns his back to him and leans on the balcony's railing.

"But I didn't. I never gave up."

He hears Aaron rustling behind him and then feels Aaron's arms enveloping him. "And I thank God every day that you didn't."

"I couldn't," Spencer confesses. "I just … couldn't."

Aaron presses a kiss in to his temple. Minutes pass as they stand together, gazing out into the night sky. Finally Aaron says, "I'll support whatever decision you make. And if you change your mind for whatever reason? That's okay, too."

He leans back and basks in the warmth. "I'm a lucky man."

Aaron huffs out a laugh, "Not as lucky as I am." He plants a quick kiss on Spencer's neck. "It's late."

"It's only nine."

"Vegas time," Aaron says. "East Coast? It's midnight. I'm old."

Spencer turns around, still wrapped in Aaron's arms. "We can make out on the loungers. I've always wanted to give you a blowjob outdoors."

"Spence …"

"It's not like I'm going to ride you," he teases as he reaches around and slides his hands into the back of Aaron's pants, cupping that deliciously firm ass. "And I know you can be quiet."

"Spence …"

"Please," he begs softly. He runs a finger along Aaron's butt crack, which causes Aaron to arch and bite back a moan.

"Like I can ever say no to you," Aaron says breathlessly before kissing him hard and moving them back over to the loungers.

It's going to be difficult to keep the noise down, but Spencer knows it's going to be worth every moment.

#######

They end their visit to Vegas on Sunday with a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon and a red-eye back to DC. Monday is their day to recover; while Spencer and Aaron are old hands at the "day after a red eye" routine because of the Job, it's nice to _not_ have to be anywhere. The day is spent catching up on a chores and laundry.

It's not until after dinner that Spencer finds Aaron in the main hallway, staring at the plain beige wall. "Aaron?"

"Just thinking," he says absently, but his attention is focused on the bare wall.

"About?" Spencer prompts.

Aaron shakes his head and shrugs, but then crosses his arms over his chest. "She's right."

"Right about what?"

"Jack gives us drawings to make us happy. He puts everything in to them," he continues, voice hushed. "And we put them on the fridge or in our office or put them in a drawer …" Aaron shrugs. "Yet your mother … to her …" He hunches forward.

He doesn’t have to say, _I wish someone had done that for me … to make me feel that special for something as mundane as a Crayola effort …_ But for a child, they both know that drawings are anything but mundane …

Spencer lets out a slow breath as he wraps his arms around Aaron. "We don't have to frame them necessarily. We can install wires that have clips so that we can fit more on the wall."

Aaron turns his head and gives a quick kiss. "You've already got this figured out."

"I'm a genius."

Aaron laughs. "That you are."

"We can work on it tomorrow evening," he suggests. "We can stop by the hardware store on the way home."

"Sounds like a plan."

#### Finis ####


	14. Mistruth for the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch was under orders to lie about Prentiss, as was JJ. For Hotch, the lies had a much higher cost: not only the trust of his Team, but that of his lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR S6’s “Lauren” and S7.
> 
> COMMENTS: Unbetaed. This was written before the S7 premiere and the return of Prentiss. One of the S7’s spoilers regarding Prentiss’s return was that “much of the team does not handle finding out that she is still alive well, especially Dr. Reid, who feels betrayed.” Well, duh. http://www.tvline.com/2011/07/ask-ausiello-spoilers-castle-fringe-csi-ny-greys/
> 
> SERIES COMMENT: There is a time gap between "Evolution" and this installment (basically most of the 6th season). I'm hoping to go back and fill in the missing pieces if my dear Muses will allow it.

///***///

 _**"There were lies we told to save ourselves, and then there were lies we told to rescue others. What counted more, the mistruth, or the greater good?" — Jodi Picoult** _

///***///

Hotch argued. He bargained. He didn’t plead, because pleading was a sign of weakness. Instead, he lectured on the importance of trust, how what they were asking had the potential to destroy those bonds.

He knew that they would not budge on the directive, not with as many government agencies insisting on it. Not with the connections that the Prentiss family had.

Still, he had to try.

Because when the truth was revealed—and Hotch wasn’t so naïve to believe that it never would—he had to be able to say to his team, to those he considered his family, to _Spencer_ that he did everything he could. That he argued and bargained and lectured to the best of his ability.

He tried.

He honestly did.

But no one budged on the directive: “Emily Prentiss is officially dead, Agent Hotchner, and it’s your job to make your team and everyone else believe it.”

///***///

There was a distance between the team now. Hotch couldn’t quite describe it, but he _felt_ it every time the group got together. They didn’t mesh as well as they had in the past. Sure, the loss of a teammate changed the dynamic, especially the way in which she was lost. But this was different.

Maybe because he was the only one on the team who knew the truth.

In the field, there were the hesitations, ever so slight, after he doled out assignments. As if they were waiting for his order to Prentiss and then remembering, ‘oh right, she’s gone.’

In the office, Prentiss’s desk was left untouched.

Hotch pretended he didn’t notice the smudged fingerprints on bottom of Prentiss’s picture on the wall of the BAU. He pretended he didn’t notice how his team would pause ever so slightly when they would pass by the portrait. He pretended he didn’t see Garcia stare openly at it for at least two minutes every morning for the first three weeks after the funeral.

Hotch never let anyone see him press two fingers to his lips and then touch the bottom of the frame. He never let them hear his whispered words, “Be safe.” Treating Prentiss’s photo like a religious icon was somewhat disturbing, but it was sometimes the only thing that made the situation just slightly more bearable.

But only slightly.

///***///

There was a distance between him and Spencer now. After everything they had been through with Foyet, after how hard they worked to get their relationship back on track, there was this _distance_.

At first, it was JJ being hijacked from their team. Then, Spencer’s migraines or whatever the hell they were that inspired Spencer to nearly get himself killed (again) and to wear a yellow thread bracelet that everyone pretended they didn’t notice.

Now, it was Prentiss’s “death,” and Spencer’s mournful words of, _I didn’t get to say goodbye,_ before invoking Gideon’s name.

For Aaron, the half-glass of bourbon as a nightcap became a full glass, because a full glass dulled the edges much, much better.

///***///

They didn’t kiss as often as they used to. Hell, they didn’t kiss at all nowadays.

Then again, their hours became even more brutal. Even with Morgan taking on a decent amount of the paperwork, there were some things that only a unit chief could do. Plus, they were a profiler down—two if he was really being honest because while Seaver had good instincts, she was still a rookie.

That, on top of parenting a five-year-old.

Jack came first for him and Spencer. They never said it aloud to each other, but it was a simple fact. They put Jack ahead of their own relationship because, well, it was what they had to do.

It was why when they got into bed at midnight, they sometimes mumbled “Good night” and other times a grunt as they fussed with the bed sheets.

They stopped saying, “I love you,” before turning off the lights.

And Aaron decided that one and a half glasses of bourbon did a much better job, but he only poured that extra shot once Spencer had retired to the bedroom for the evening.

///***///

“Why did you insist on doing your team’s evaluations following Agent Prentiss’s death?”

Aaron opened his eyes and stared at his clasped hands. He wanted to say, _I needed to hear if they believed my lies_.

Instead, he replied, “They’re very private individuals. I didn’t want some stranger making a judgment call on a situation he or she knew nothing about.”

“Did you think about what your team wanted?”

“They could have asked for someone else.”

“But they didn’t.”

“No.”

There were days _(every day, every single day)_ when he wished they had.

///***///

Hotch knew one of the reasons why Reid accepted the consulting assignment in Baton Rouge. The other consult was in Racine and Chicago was only a two hour drive south; Morgan hadn’t visited his family over a year. It was gracious, of course, because the Baton Rouge consult was more up Morgan’s alley even if Reid was their “expert in everything.” Hotch wondered if it was simply to get away because they all knew that the Baton Rouge consult was going to take longer than the Racine one.

He hated himself for thinking that it was the break they needed from each other, that he needed from Reid.

It didn’t stop him from making that phone call to the State Department after Spencer left for Louisiana, leaving the office early, picking up Jack, and heading over to the park. He sat on the bench and watched Jack introduce himself to the Asian boy playing on the large netted climber. The boys began climbing the structure, engrossed in whatever game they came up with.

He wanted to be proud that his little boy had confidence like that. He wanted to smile and take photos and use his phone to shoot a video to send to Spencer but he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not with JJ now sitting next to him.

“I’ve heard Nice is nice,” she said as she focused her attention on the children playing.

Hotch wasn’t surprised that Emily was still in France. The rare times she had talked about growing up in Europe, she always seemed fondest of France. Maybe because of her grandfather.

Maybe.

JJ shifted closer to him, encroaching his personal space. A year ago, she wouldn’t have done that unless they were undercover. A year ago …

“How’s Spence?”

Jack high-fived the Asian boy wearing a Ninja Turtle shirt. Hotch forced the smile as he returned the wave of the two women who were presumably the Ninja Turtle boy’s parents. Oh, they tried to act like they weren’t a couple, but it was easy to see how close they were.

He wondered if their friends worried more over one of them than the other.

For once, Hotch wished someone would ask _him_ how he was doing. For JJ to ask, because JJ was realistically the only person he could talk to. The only person under the same gag order as he was. The only person who knew the directives he had to follow and the penalties for his failure.

But, as always, her focus was on Spencer.

It was infuriating.

He could choose not to answer or tell her to ask Reid herself. He could opt for a non-committal shrug. But this was JJ, the one person allowed to know. So even though Hotch answered with, “He didn’t get to say goodbye,” which was what Spencer had said to JJ the night Emily was declared dead, Hotch knew that she would understand.

“It’s been a rough two years,” JJ replied.

The words made him sneer. Hotch looked at JJ, pleased that she immediately moved away. “Of all the people to say that,” he growled out, “you’re the last person I would have expected.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “Hotch …”

His anger flared, overriding all the fail-safes he had built for himself so his temper would remain leashed. “I lie to him every goddamn minute of every goddamn day,” he hissed. “And the most you can say is, ‘it’s been a rough two years’? What happened? State got your tongue?”

Hotch stood up abruptly, surveying the park as he did. Ninja Turtle’s parents were calling their son over, glancing at Hotch as they did. He knew how scary he could look; Jack called it his ‘scowly face.’ He tried to rein in his anger, because Jack was now watching him and the smile quickly disappeared from his son’s face.

God, Ninja Turtle’s parents were probably now convinced that he beat the hell out of Jack on a regular basis.

Yet Jack suddenly ran towards him and hugged him around the knees. His son pointed at JJ and said loudly, “I don’t like Miss JJ. She makes you sad.”

Ninja Turtle’s parents now focused on JJ, their eyes narrowed and their lips set. Obviously, they heard Jack’s declaration. Hotch wondered if he knew the two women from somewhere, if they recognized him from the news which is why they seemed to be on his side. Maybe they recognized JJ. It didn’t matter. He knew he shouldn’t savor the flush of pleasure from strangers taking his side but he did anyway.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Hotch apologized as he crouched down and smoothed Jack’s hair. Normally, he would have clarified that JJ wasn’t the one who made him angry, that it was someone else.

But that wouldn’t be the truth.

Instead, he asked, “What game were you playing with your new friend?”

“King of the Mountain,” Jack told him.

And when Hotch glanced back, JJ had left.

He didn’t feel guilty about that at all.

///***///

Two was better than one.

The new brand of bourbon wasn’t as good as Aaron’s normal one, but it came in a liter bottle.

It cost the same as his preferred brand for twice as much.

Frugal.

It needed ice.

///***//

The smudges on the glass of Prentiss’s FBI portrait were gone.

It wasn’t unusual for the cleaning crew to wipe down the picture frames.

But it was the first time since Prentiss’s death that it was late in the afternoon and there were no fingerprints.

Aaron pressed his fingers to the wood frame instead.

“Be safe.”

///***///

Spencer’s consult lasted six days, two days longer than expected. Jack was sad and Aaron … Aaron wondered why those additional two days didn’t bother him.

When the younger man walked in, Jack rushed up to greet him, shouting excitedly that Spencer was home. Spencer hugged Jack and pulled a quarter from behind the boy’s ear, like always.

Aaron simply said, “Welcome back.”

Spencer nodded.

No embrace. No kiss.

Jack tugged on Spencer’s hand, chattering on about all the pictures he’d drawn while Spencer was away. Spencer allowed Jack to lead him to his bedroom.

Aaron went back to making dinner, refreshing his cocktail along the way. There was nothing extraordinary about the latter. His mother used to drink and cook all the time, although she preferred scotch and soda. He could hear Jack asking Spencer all sorts of questions about his trip, demanding that they place the pin on the U.S. large map they had on the living room wall. The map had been Spencer’s idea, a way for Jack to keep track of all the places they’ve been. The blue pins were for Aaron, yellow for Spencer, green for when it was both of them, and red when they went as a family. Of the sea of blues, yellows and greens, the five red pins stood out.

Aaron wondered what color would represent Aaron-Jack trips and which for Spencer-Jack ones.

He wanted to hate himself for even thinking that, but the logical part of him chided, _It’s only a matter of time_.

By the time Spencer and Jack had marked the map, set the table, and washed up, dinner was ready.

Aaron poured him and Spencer wine.

The dinner conversation was focused on Jack and Aaron was thankful for it up until Jack said, “Miss JJ was in the park and made Daddy sad.”

Spencer stilled for a moment, and then cocked his head sideways. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why did Miss JJ make Daddy sad?”

Jack shrugged and all the attention was on Aaron, who took a mouthful of wine and swallowed hard. Aaron dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He met Spencer’s gaze. “Miss JJ talked about Miss Emily.”

“Oh,” was all Spencer said.

“Miss Emily is in heaven with Mommy, right?” Jack asked.

Aaron already had the wine glass to his lips again. His stomach turned hard, but he was able to get out, “Yes, buddy, just like the pictures you drew.”

Because Jack’s solution to everything was to draw pictures.

“Did you have fun in the park?” Spencer asked, and Jack answered with enthusiasm.

Aaron learned that Ninja Turtle’s name was Junichi and Junichi had two mommies. He should have felt proud when Jack said, “And I told him I have two daddies and he thought it was awesome!”

Instead, his gut twisted a little more.

And when dinner was over, Aaron took the plates from Spencer’s hands and said, “Spend time with Jack. He missed you.”

He wondered why he didn’t say, _I missed you, too._

After all, he’d been lying so much to Spencer, what was another one?

///***///

It was well past one in the morning and Aaron was surprised that Spencer was still up. Usually, after getting home from a consult, Spencer went to bed almost as early as Jack.

Usually.

Tonight? He was sitting in bed, reading a book. He glanced over at Aaron as he closed the tome. “When you’re sober, we need to talk.”

Instinct was to argue, was to snap that he was, “just fine goddamn it.”

Instead, Aaron stumbled towards the bathroom. When he stumbled back out, the room was dark save the nightlight in the corner casting a pale glow on the lump in the bed that was Spencer.

Aaron got into bed.

Thankfully, the booze allowed him a dreamless sleep.

///***///

Aaron was well-practiced in the art of being yelled at. He knew to sit forward on the couch, lean forward with his elbows resting on his knees, fold his hands together, and bow his head. He knew that this body language—penitent, submissive—was rewarded, whether it was a shorter argument or less accusations or a slap across the face instead of a leather belt across the back of his legs.

He had a hangover, which wasn’t surprising once he dared to count how much he had last night. And, of course, his luck was particularly shitty because there was no Tylenol, Advil, aspirin or Alleve in the house. He checked. Twice. Even searched their go bags. He wondered if Spencer hid them as punishment.

Haley used to do that.

Not that Aaron routinely drank like he had last night, but there were days during his first marriage when he got back from a case, battered and bruised, and all the pain meds were mysteriously gone.

Spencer sat on the armchair, looking more like a king on his throne than a profiler on an overstuffed chair. “I’d like us to see Doctor Reyes together.”

Aaron twitched. Sure, he admired and respected the doctor, the woman he still met with every month or so to discuss his recovery. She helped bring him back from a bad cocktail of prescription drugs after Foyet’s attack. Back when he drew his weapon on Prentiss and almost shot her because his mind was locked in a full blown panic attack.

Prentiss, who ordered him to stand down.

Prentiss, who called Spencer, which led to Reyes sitting in Aaron’s living room and evaluating his behavior.

Prentiss, who refused to file the report afterwards, a report that should have been submitted because, goddamn it, Aaron had temporarily lost his mind.

Prentiss.

Emily.

Bile raced up his throat.

Aaron swallowed hard to keep it down. After a few moments, he said, “Okay,” because that was really the only answer he could give.

He was surprised when Spencer stood up and walked away, the conversation clearly over.

He wasn’t surprised by the sense of déjà vu.

///***///

The first session with Reyes went like every other marriage counseling session Aaron had been subjected to. Reid aired his grievances, Reyes rephrased them and asked for Aaron’s reaction, and Aaron dutifully replied the answers that they were expecting to hear.

Hotch knew that Reid left angrier than before, but the moment they stepped into the house, Reid’s anger faded. Jack was there, all smiles and hugs. Jess watched the both of them, arms crossed over her chest and a piercing gaze to Hotch that was so similar to Haley’s, Hotch couldn’t stop the full shiver that raced down his spine.

Hotch didn’t drink that night. Hell, he even poured the bourbon out and washed the decanter.

A superficial gesture, certainly, but Hotch knew how to play the game.

Reid fell asleep on the couch that night, claiming that he must have done so while working on his latest paper.

Hotch knew he was guarding the liquor cabinet.

Reid did that for the next four nights.

The meditation exercises on Hotch’s iPod did little to help him sleep.

///***///

The fourth session with Reyes was an individual one. Hotch had a decent rapport with her; he trusted her and appreciated her no nonsense approach. She didn’t try to out psych him, just initiated a conversation and let him go where he wanted to go with it.

Usually.

Today, as he sat down in the overstuffed chair, Reyes leaned back in her own seat and tilted her head slightly. “How many marriage counselors did you see with Haley?”

The question surprised him, but Aaron answered, “Four.”

“All of her choosing.”

“Yes.”

“Which is why you know the drill,” Reyes concluded with a small nod. “Aaron, this is not a punishment.”

He looked away, focusing on the coffee maker on the sideboard. Mister Coffee. Had to be at least twenty years old. The carafe had that dinginess that came from excessive use and washings in hard water, from coffee sitting overnight and burning when the machine was left on too long. It had sentimental value, probably the coffee maker she used to earn her degree in psychiatry. It also probably made a pretty good pot of coffee.

“He says you haven’t grieved and it concerns him,” she continued.

Aaron flinched and looked down. “It’s … complicated.”

“I am concerned, Aaron,” Reyes told him as she leaned forward slightly. “You’re more distant, more cautious. You have lost weight. And when you’re here, you capitulate when Spencer challenges you, willingly accepting the blame when, in some circumstances, there is no blame to be had. You tell us what you believe we want to hear.” For several moments, nothing was said. Then Reyes began, “During that last session with both of you here, Spencer listed several court cases but didn’t give the context behind them, which is very unusual. He did that right before our time ended and refused to elaborate.”

“Physician-patient privilege,” he answered quietly. “Those cases were where the courts ruled in favor of the confidentiality, including instances where it was a group session. He included cases in the commonwealth of Virginia, where you are licensed to practice.”

“Why do you think he brought that up?”

He closed his eyes. He swallowed hard. “To remind me. That if I were to be subpoenaed, the rulings are on my side.”

Reyes paused. “This has to do with Agent Prentiss’s death.”

“It’s five forty-nine,” he said instead. Their sessions ended precisely at fifty minutes past the hour.

Reyes sighed. She paused. “You’re my last appointment.”

“You have a daughter … early teens … she’ll be home from practice. Field hockey,” Aaron blurted. It was the first time he’d broken his ‘no profiling Reyes’ rule after their first meeting.

“Got it in one,” she murmured before gesturing towards the door. “He’s worried about you as I am.”

Aaron wanted to say he was fine.

Another lie.

Another. Lie.

Instead, he fled the confines of her office, hating his own cowardice.

///***///

The thing of it was that Spencer would never arbitrarily leave. He was part of Jack’s life. Jack waited for him. Jack saved stories specifically for Spencer, stories that he refused to share with Aaron because, ‘They are Spencer stories.’

Aaron watched as his son excitedly relayed the day’s events, details excluded from his earlier account to Aaron. Jealously surged forward— _why didn’t he tell me about the bunny in the classroom?_ —but it was squelched by the way Spencer dropped everything by the front door and followed Jack to Jack’s bedroom where apparently there were drawings.

 _Spencer will never leave._

William Reid cruelly deserted his son and his wife.

Aaron knew that no matter how bad things were between him and Spencer, Spencer just wouldn’t pack up unless Aaron became a serious threat.

 _I’d have to hurt Jack …_

Aaron cursed himself for thinking that way. He edged towards the bar, momentarily angry that his drink of choice was not there.

He then thanked himself for pouring it out four weeks, six days ago and not stashing a spare bottle in the pantry.

He wasn’t his father’s son.

Nor was he his mother’s.

///***///

The moment Aaron walked into Reyes office and closed the door, he took his shoes off. He set them by the door before he sat down on her spacious couch. He pulled his knees to his chest.

This wasn’t him.

It really wasn’t.

Yet, this last week had been particularly hellish. Spencer hadn’t spoken to him outside of work and the sparse interactions with Jack. Jess had asked, “What the fuck?” in that special way of hers. The way she used to question him when things with Haley really turned bad.

He and Spencer tried to have sex, but it was a humiliating failure. Aaron couldn’t keep his erection and Spencer’s responses seemed mechanical, as if he were going through the motions. Spencer fell asleep on the living room couch more often.

But what thoroughly freaked Aaron out was last night. They were watching _Cars_ on DVD, Spencer and Aaron on the couch while Jack sat on the floor, leaning against Aaron’s legs, and clutching his stuffed T-Rex. Occasionally, Jack would turn around, stand up, and grab Aaron’s hand and pull so that it rested on Spencer’s. Satisfied with his work, Jack would sit back down and continue to watch the movie. Aaron moved his hand away once Jack sat down.

The fourth time Jack did this, he looked right at Aaron and said, “You’re _supposed_ to hold hands! You _love_ each other.”

Aaron’s mouth went dry. Spencer’s hand tensed under his. Finally, Aaron was able to say, “I do.”

“Then hold Spencer’s hand!” Jack ordered, complete with stern glare and a firm shake of his head.

It was supposed to be a wonderful moment, this acceptance of his relationship with Spencer by his child. Instead, it made him nauseous and light-headed. He managed to get out, “Yes, sir” which earned a bright smile from Jack.

They watched the rest of the movie in silence, Aaron’s hand not moving from where it rested on Spencer’s. But after they put Jack to bed, Spencer picked up his laptop and went back to the couch, leaving Aaron standing outside the master bedroom.

No wishes of good night. No discussion at all. Just the oppressive silence that reminded Aaron of the last weeks of his marriage to Haley.

He’d never been so thankful for having a counseling appointment the next day.

It was why he was now on the couch and whispering, “I’m losing him.”

Christ. It wasn’t like him to confess like this. It really wasn’t.

But Reyes knew Spencer. Spencer met with her weekly, more often than Aaron did.

She had to know something.

“What happened?” she asked.

So Aaron relayed last night’s events, ending with, “We didn’t even talk about what Jack said. Just went our separate ways. I’m losing him and … I … I _can’t_.” His voice cracked on the last word. He shivered.

“You haven’t mourned for Emily Prentiss,” Reyes replied bluntly. “You’ve made those on the team confess how they feel, yet you have not done so yourself. You imposed this distance, Aaron. You are withholding …”

“I have no choice!” he snarled. But his feet were on the couch, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was a child confessing to an adult.

He had no sense of self right now. He could feel the tear slide down his left cheek. “If I say anything more, it will be a violation of ...” He almost said ‘national security’ before realizing how asinine it sounded.

He heard the soft creak of the leather, smelled the faint waft of perfume, and felt her warm hands cover his. “Aaron …”

“I lie to him. Every day. _Every goddamn day._ He knows it. It’s why we’re here.”

“It’s why you began drinking heavily.”

“It’s why I stopped.”

“This lie … it’s not only taking a mental toll on you. It’s taking a physical one,” Reyes told him, squeezing his hands. “You don’t have the luxury of spousal privilege.”

“I still couldn’t tell him,” he replied miserably, keeping his eyes closed.

For several moments, there was silence. “You need to take a few days.”

“I can’t,” he cut her off. “Strauss is on administrative leave. I have her job in addition to my own.”

She swiftly moved away. “I can declare you unfit for duty.”

Aaron’s eyes snapped open. He rocketed to his feet, rolling his shoulders forward and clenching his fists. He opened his mouth but she held up her hand.

For whatever reason, it made him stop.

“Three days,” she told him firmly.

“Doctor …”

“Three days. Roanoke is beautiful this time of year,” she said as she moved toward her desk.

“The Blue Ridge Strangler hunted in Roanoke.”

“Massanutten, then.”

“Cory Bridges murdered two of his peers and tried to pin it on the Lords of Destruction.”

“Given that logic, you certainly can’t stay at home.”

And, good Lord, the words were out before he could stop them: “A federal agent was nearly stabbed to death in his living room.”

“Six Flags America, then,” she offered. “But there were probably some child abduction cases there, too.”

“The rides malfunction on the anniversary of Eleanor Hall’s death.”

“You’ve got a comeback for everything, don’t you?” Reyes shook her head, but her tone lacked any heat. “Do something, then. Away from work. With Jack. With Spencer. Even if it’s just a picnic by the Washington Monument or touring a museum.”

“Work …”

“Can wait.” She met his stare with a calm one of her own. “You came into my office today knowing that your relationship is on the brink. You are the type of person who has to be bullied into doing something for your own good, so guess what? I’m bullying you. Do it. And schedule yourself for another appointment in four days. If you don’t do it on your own, then I’ll be forced to reprimand you. And really, Aaron, you don’t want that.”

///***///

There was no picnic. There was no follow-up appointment in four days.

There were three missing prepubescent girls, their captor with a video camera, an online auction, and seven days of utter frustration once they realized just what was being auctioned.

They saved two but lost one.

Hotch took the seat in the rear of the jet; Reid took the one closest to the cockpit, which used to be Emily’s (and Elle’s) favored spot.

Before Emily’s death, the rest of the team would have noticed the distance between Hotch and Reid. Dave would have pressed the issue. Morgan would have stared him down. Hotch was sure both men noticed it, but there was that distance … the distance that threatened to destroy this team …

Who was he kidding? The team was already on the brink of falling apart.

It was the reason when they got back to the office, Hotch buried himself with paperwork. Jack was spending the night with his Brooks’ cousins, so there was no rush to get home, not with the current state of the Hotchner-Reid relationship. He did rebook his appointment with Reyes for Monday although he dreaded telling her that he failed to follow her directive about taking time off and spending it Spencer.

When an opportunity like this came up before, Reid would have sent him goofy text messages to his personal phone. They would clock-watch in their eagerness to get home, to have the evening to themselves. They would try different things. Experiment. Test their boundaries. Play. Indulge, even if it was something as boring as eating vanilla ice cream from the carton and sharing the spoon.

Now?

Hotch didn’t realize it was just after nine in the evening until he heard the roar of the vacuum cleaner outside of his office. He put his pen down. He wondered if he was sleeping on the couch tonight. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Reid really was too tall for the couch although the younger man did not complain.

He leaned back in his chair. He let out a long sigh. He rubbed his eyes, knowing that he should get that prescription filled for reading glasses but, like everything else, he put it off. He closed the files on his desk, debated on putting them in his briefcase. He did it not because he was expecting to work on it when he got home (contrary to popular belief, he did know when to call it quits for the night), but in case they were called out on a case and he didn’t have time to stop by the office on the way to the airstrip.

Briefcase in one hand, go bag slung over his shoulder, he turned off the lights to his office with his right hand. He closed the door, rattling the knob to confirm it was locked. He did his nightly ritual of ghosting through the bullpen and stopping at each person’s desk, recalling the case he or she was working on and a random personal fact.

He didn’t stop by Spencer’s desk.

He didn’t stop by Emily’s either.

He walked back up to the portraits hanging on the wall, noting that the cleaning crew had moved into the conference room.

He was alone.

He raised his right hand, kissed two fingertips, and then touched the bottom of the frame of Prentiss’s picture. He closed his eyes and murmured, “Be safe.”

He wondered if Nice was still nice.

He still hadn’t spoken to JJ since that disastrous meeting in the park.

He wasn’t sure he could stand to see her again.

Suddenly, Spencer’s quiet voice broke the silence: “What prayer do you recite?”

Startled, Hotch whirled to face the direction of the voice, go bag dropping to the floor as he automatically palmed his weapon. His breathing was rapid. His nerves on fire. Trapped. Caught. He knew his own guilt was horrifically palpable.

Spencer stared him down, and although his face was devoid of any emotion, his eyes shone with that fearlessness that that had first lured Aaron down the path of inappropriate thoughts about his subordinate. The fearlessness that he had when Aaron had tried to end their relationship, back when Aaron was still in the throes of PTSD and a bad combination of pills.

“Which prayer?” Spencer demanded softly yet with that edge that meant he expected to be answered.

Aaron wanted to look away … wanted to run run run … lie lie lie because that was all he had been doing for these past months.

Lie. Run. Run. Lie.

He couldn’t do either.

He just stood there.

Reyes’ words from last week rang in his mind: _You came into my office today knowing that your relationship is on the brink. You are the type of person who has to be bullied into doing something for your own good, so guess what? I’m bullying you._

It was precisely what Spencer was doing now.

Finally, finally … Aaron was able to speak. “I don’t.”

“Don’t?”

 _Don’t speak. Don’t speak. He’ll know. He’ll know. He can’t know. Lie. Lie. Lie. Run. Lie. Run. Run. Run. Lie._

“Pray,” Aaron choked out. “I don’t pray.”

Spencer’s gaze narrowed. He tilted his head slightly. He pursed his lips for a few moments before silently mouthing words. He did it quickly, yet Aaron knew exactly what he was doing: figuring out what Aaron had said when he touched the photograph. Spencer’s eyes darted back and forth like always when his guard was down and he allowed people to witness him think.

It only took less than a minute for Spencer to suss out the phrase. And when his mouth formed the words _Be safe_ , his eyes widened and he visibly blanched. He took a step back, as if he had been physically struck.

There, in the middle of the goddamn FBI, the secret that Aaron meticulously kept to the detriment of everything important to him was revealed.

The secret that could cause his team to be blackballed within the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. The kind of blackballing that Garcia’s technical wizardry and Dave’s political savvy had no defense against.

The kind of blackballing that ruined lives.

And Aaron Hotchner watched as the man he loved, the man he endured this secret to protect, spun on his heels and stormed out of the BAU.

Aaron knew that Spencer wouldn’t be home tonight.

He glanced back at his locked office.

He wondered why he should go home.

There was nothing there for him.

///***///

The stupid thing to do, the _predictable_ thing to do was for Aaron to raid what was left in the liquor cabinet—and there was still quite a selection of vodka, whiskey, rum, tequila, brandy and assorted liqueurs for making those sweet, frozen concoctions that Spencer adored so much—and get drunk out of his mind.

Hell, Aaron could easily give himself alcohol poisoning; it wouldn’t be that hard.

And, if he was going to over-achieve like that, he might as well wash down the prescription painkillers he still had.

Instead, Aaron brewed a batch of sweet tea at midnight. Ironically, as much as Spencer loved sugar and confections, he abhorred sweet tea. According to Spencer, “It just tastes wrong.”

And Aaron would always reply, “And coffee-flavored sugar doesn’t?”

To which Spencer would fire back, “If the others knew your Sunday morning splurge of mocha caramel coffee with heavy cream …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. My reputation would be ruined.”

 _It already has been._

Sweat dripped down the side of the highball glass Aaron had poured his tea into. He sat on the floor in Jack’s room, back against the dresser, and stared at his son’s neatly made bed. The sheets were a plain light blue, but the bedspread and pillowcases were decorated with dinosaurs. Jack new all their names and, thanks to Spencer’s tutelage, knew what types of food each one of them ate and what era each were from. There was even a map on Jack’s wall with pictures of the various dinosaurs pinned to where their fossils had been discovered.

Aaron remembered when he invited Spencer over for the first time after Haley’s death, when Spencer sat at the breakfast bar and colored dinosaurs with Jack.

He closed his eyes. He felt the tears.

He was alone, so it was okay to cry.

And, just like that afternoon in Reyes’ office, he pulled his knees to his chest.

He wept because he was all out of any other emotion except sorrow.

 _They’ll take everything away from him._ Oh, they had been painstakingly clear on just what retribution would be visited on his team. They knew him well. They knew that a personal threat to him would not have the same impact as threatening his team.

As threatening Spencer. As threatening Jack.

Light suddenly streaked across the carpeting of Jack’s room. There was a jangle of keys. Aaron knew he should get up. Knew he should reach for his guns but no, those were in the safe where they were supposed to be this late at night. Knew he should confront whoever the hell was in the apartment.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he wondered why Foyet didn’t drag him into Jack’s bedroom and stab him there. It would have certainly more symbolic than behind his couch, between the sofa table and desk. It would have had more of an emotional impact. A violation of Jack, that he couldn’t step into this room without thinking what an utter failure he was. That if Jack was in that bed, Jack would be watching his father be butchered by a madman.

The door to Jack’s room swung wider and a tall, slender shadow loomed on the carpeting. Aaron closed his eyes. He rested his forehead against his knees. He could hear the rustle of fabric and the rattle of ice cubes in his glass.

 _He’s checking to see how drunk you are._

Aaron didn’t move.

He heard the light thump of Spencer sitting next to him and smelled the stale stench of cigarettes that clung to Spencer’s clothing. Spencer didn’t smoke, but his sponsor did and it was a peculiar blend with a distinctive scent.

For the longest time, they sat shoulder to shoulder, not touching. Spencer’s quiet, steady voice filled the room. “I’m angry.”

 _You deserve to be._

“I understand why,” Spencer continued. “But I’m still angry.” Another lengthy pause. “I’m angry at you. At JJ. At whoever … whatever …” He heard Spencer’s fist pound the carpeting. “I understand why. And I think that’s what I hate the most.” Again, more silence. Finally, Spencer spoke, still sounding frustrated. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

The Prayer of Serenity. It was popular with recovering addicts. Aaron remembered the discussion they had one night after they had gotten back together about the guilt that Aaron still felt over Haley’s death.

Guilt that he wasn’t sure he knew how to let go even now.

Spencer’s hand rested on his shoulder. “We have a breakfast meeting at seven.”

Aaron opened his eyes and glanced up. “Reyes?”

“My sponsor. He wants to meet you.”

Indignation made him straighten up. “I haven’t been drinking. I stopped. I purposefully stopped.”

“I know,” Spencer replied. “That’s not why he wants to meet you.” He stood, groaning a little as he gripped the side of Jack’s dresser. “Come to bed, Aaron.”

With one last glance at Jack’s bed, Aaron stood. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn’t.

///***///

Of course, Aaron didn’t sleep much that night. He supposed Spencer didn’t either. And when Spencer revealed that his sponsor was coming over to their place for breakfast, that they weren’t going out, he couldn’t muster up annoyance or frustration.

There was just fear.

And he really hated that feeling.

“Casual,” Spencer insisted as he moved toward his closet. “No suit. No tie. No dress pants. No button down.”

Denied his armor, Aaron wanted to be angry. He wanted to quip, “Would naked be acceptable?” but didn’t. Instead, he dressed in jeans and a polo. He made a fresh pot of coffee and rummaged through their fridge, dismayed that they only had eggs, bread, milk and cornflakes. He was supposed to finally meet Spencer’s sponsor and he had nothing to serve for breakfast.

It was the stupid times that those manners his mother beat into came to the forefront.

“He’s bringing the pastries,” Spencer announced as he brushed by Aaron on his way to the coffeemaker.

Aaron closed the fridge door, fingers lingering on the handle. It was six-thirty. Thirty minutes to waste.

Before Prentiss’s death, they would have made out in the kitchen. Aaron would have dropped to his knees and sucked Spencer off. They might have even fucked right there on the kitchen floor. Now …

Spencer breezed out of the kitchen with his coffee and over to the dining room table. He plunked his mug down and then switched Jack’s placemat with the one reserved for Jess when she had dinner with them. Aaron wondered if it was deliberate or just something for Spencer to do to pass the time. They didn’t get the morning paper simply because they never knew when they were going to be home, and piled up newspapers were a dead giveaway to an absent homestead.

Aaron glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to go. Plenty of time to “go out and pick up a paper,” he said aloud because it was a Saturday and they weren’t due in the office until Monday unless they got a case. Jack wouldn’t be home until ten.

He glanced over and met Spencer’s steady gaze. It wasn’t necessarily a peace offering; they both preferred an actual newspaper to going online, even if the newsprint made their fingers dirty. Spencer nodded and Aaron found himself almost dashing out of his own home to escape the silence.

The coin-op newspaper stand on the corner was out of papers; Aaron wondered when the last time the thing was actually stocked. It really didn’t matter, because walking two blocks to the Starbucks helped burn off his nervous energy. He picked up the _Post_ and the _Times_ , paid, and checked his watch. Ten til seven. He debated picking up four muffins just in case Spencer’s sponsor forgot to bring the pastries. He looked at the line that had formed in the two minutes it took for him to pickup and buy the paper, and realized that he wouldn’t have time. He left and wondered just what prompted Spencer’s sponsor to want to meet him.

At five til seven, Aaron walked up the short sidewalk to the front of his building. Cigarette smoke assaulted his senses, but he immediately recognized the specific smell: the kind that Spencer’s sponsor favored. Gripping the papers, Aaron made his way inside and down the hall. He almost knocked, but then chastised himself for wanting to ask permission to enter his own goddamn home.

He opened the door, hearing Spencer explain, “ … went to get the morning papers.” He didn’t glance into the living room as he turned to close the door. “Ah. Um. He’s. Ah. This is him. Aaron.”

Aaron turned to face Spencer and …

 _Holy Jesus Christ – the goddamn director of the FBI._

He immediately straightened, the Hotch persona washing across him. Just because he wasn’t wearing a suit … “Sir.”

The director strode forward, hand extended. “It’s John.”

Aaron automatically shook his hand, noting the firm grip. Questions surged in his mind, foremost being, _Has Spencer just outed me to the director of the FBI?_ Because while there is an unspoken bond between addicts and an expectation in the sponsor-relationship, this … this …

There was no judgment in the man’s eyes. No disdain. John. First name. Informal. _We are all equals._ He could see Spencer fidgeting slightly. _No hierarchy._ Just two recovering addicts and one who was heading down the same path.

Aaron repeated the man’s name, shook his hand and introduced himself. He placed the papers on the end table. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you, Aaron. I just stopped by to drop off pastries,” John replied.

And drop a big goddamn bomb, Aaron thought.

“A friend of Spencer’s is a friend of mine,” the director continued and then held out a small piece of paper. Aaron accepted it, instinctively knowing that he was just given the man’s personal phone number. “No man is an island.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Aaron replied, because he certainly wasn’t going to promise it.

“Enjoy the pastries,” John smiled warmly as he briefly clasped Aaron’s upper arm. The man turned and did the same to Spencer. “See you Thursday.”

“If we don’t have a case,” Spencer responded as he shoved his hands further in his pockets. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“I owed you one,” John replied.

Aaron did his best not to let his jaw drop open at the implication. _We all fall down sometimes,_ he recalled Spencer saying. _It’s just knowing how to get back up. Took me a few times to remember that._

“I’ll just show myself out.”

Aaron just stood there, staring at Spencer, as he heard the director walk across the room and leave his apartment.

Once the door clicked closed, Spencer rocked back on his heels. “He knows we’re close friends, that I spend time here when my apartment gets too …” He shrugged. “I didn’t tell him the details about Emily. He knows she’s dead and that we’ve all had a hard time dealing with it.” Spencer then looked away. “But he did remind me that mistruth is sometimes needed for the greater good.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You closed yourself off.”

“I had to,” Aaron hoarsely replied.

“I know.” He heaved out a sigh. He took a step closer to Aaron. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and cautiously held it out.

One of these days, Spencer’s generosity and understanding were going to run dry. Aaron went to that well so many times …

 _Now or never._ It wasn’t forgiveness. Aaron wasn’t stupid enough to think that three hours and a visit with his sponsor would inspire Spencer to absolve him of this sin. It was a peace offering, a first step.

Aaron wondered if he himself had only taken those steps while he was married to Haley that things would have turned out differently.

 _Foyet would still have killed her. Actually, he would have butchered Jack first, making Haley watch …_

The words tumbled out of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“I know. I’ve watched this eat away at you worse than Foyet. We’re going to get past this, right?”

“Yes.” Then, the words he hadn’t been able speak since that awful night in Boston, when he’d been given the directive that he knew would destroy his personal life, seemed the most right thing to say. “I love you.”

Spencer nodded once. “I know that, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“I can’t lose you.”

Spencer then reached forward and brushed his fingers along Aaron’s jaw. “Then promise me you’ll stop trying.”

“I promise,” Aaron whispered fiercely. “I promise.”

///***/// Finis ///***///


End file.
